


gods of carnage

by deathsweetqueen



Series: gods of carnage [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artistic License of Real-Life Events, Attempted Forced Fertilisation, Attempted Reproductive Coercion, Brainwashing, Canon-untypical Violence, Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Tony Stark, Future Polyamory, Gender Related, HYDRA Violence, Human Experimentation, Hurt Tony Stark, Masturbation, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Conventional Soulmate Bond, Pansexual Tony Stark, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potentially Happy Ending, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark is taken by HYDRA, Torture, Trauma, child kidnapping, murder couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-03-17 03:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 61,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18957316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: On May 29, 1970, the Winter Soldier feels a burning sensation and looks down at his wrist to find a single name written in enduring ink:Antonia Margaret Stark.HYDRA, fearing the defiance of their greatest asset due to a bond that cannot and will not be denied its due, immediately dispatches the Soldier, to locate, collect and deliver this newborn girl to HYDRA, which will become her new home, her new family and her entire world - to be raised as another one of HYDRA’s great warriors: their Engineer.But the Engineer is a faulty asset. She thinks things that may get her killed one day. She wants things that she shouldn’t, that are not hers to want. She has a mind and body that belong more to herself than any handler, than any commander she may have.And if she cuts her strings,whenshe cuts her strings, well, when you put sheep next to wolves, you ask for a bloodbath.





	1. 1970

**Author's Note:**

> SO, my IMBB fic for 2019.
> 
> This is a culmination of so many things, you have no fucking idea, and I don't think I've been more proud of any fic than this one. 
> 
> It is intense, I will warn you. Those warnings, while most are NOT in this chapter, will happen. Do not doubt that.
> 
> For this particular chapter, be wary of child kidnapping and abuse and the iffy situation where Bucky is around his soulmate from a young age, including teaching this little girl how to become a killer. They will inevitably have a romantic, sexual relationship, and I have tagged this as dubious consent because HYDRA is putting them in a fucked up situation, but there is absolutely nothing non-consensual about their relationship when it happens. Both Bucky and Antonia decide to proceed ahead according to their own wants and wishes.
> 
> My beloved artist's work will be shown in the final chapter, which will be out on June 1. @sleepoverwork is the wonderful, beautiful soul who chose my summary and I'm just as keen as I hope all of you will be to see what she's come up with!
> 
> Finally, I'd like to thank my lovely betas, Skye and MayanAngel, for betaing this brobdingnagian fic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This satisfies the "Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier" (T5) square of the Tony Stark Bingo.

**1970**

On May 29, 1970 at 6:36 in the morning, the Asset feels a viscous burning on his wrist, which, as he has been instructed in case of mechanical failure, he promptly reports to his handler, who wrenches up the sleeve of his tactical undershirt, only to reveal a row of letters carved into his wrist in a neat, loopy scrawl that had not been there the last time he’d bared his wrist.

_Antonia Margaret Stark._

His handler’s face contorts with an expression of such disgust and fear that he promptly drops his hand like it’s made of acid.

“The commander will want to know about this,” his handler growls.

The Asset is unsure of why the handler is suddenly so angry, but he keeps quiet, nonetheless, for fear of retribution, which is always so swift and painful.

Hours later, the commander visits him in his cell, and he stands at attention, waiting for their orders – it is only common sense; the commanders would not keep him out of the cryogenic chamber without a mission arranged for him. His last had been the assassination of Idris bin Abdullah al-Senussi and his son, so that Muammar Gaddafi could come to power in Libya, and he was promptly ushered back into his cryogenic chamber, not before his mind was _corrected_ by the chair that he is relentlessly aware of.

“Soldat,” one of the commanders addresses him. “We have been informed by your handler as to your structural decay.”

“The Asset is unsure of any structural decay, commander,” the Asset intones, inwardly panicking.

“The _name_ ,” the commander snaps. “The _name_ , you halfwit.” He shakes his head. “You are compromised.”

The Asset baulks. “The Asset does not understand, commander,” he insists.

The commander promptly backhands him, sending the Asset’s head snapping to the side.

The pain spirals across his cheekbone and he curls in on himself, slightly, in an attempt to protect himself from any further violence.

Weakness breeds mercy.

“You are compromised, Soldat,” the commander says, coldly, clucking his tongue. “We must correct this.”

The Asset remains silent; excessive verbalisation will lead to further punishment.

The commander gropes at the Asset’s wrist, holding it up as if it belongs to him. He rolls the hem of the Asset’s undersuit downwards, baring the lettering on his pulse point.

“Do you know who this is, Soldat?” the commander asks him, pointedly.

“The name is not recognised, commander,” the Asset answers, promptly.

“ _She_ is the newborn daughter of Howard Stark,” the commander informs him, an unhappy twist to his mouth. “Do you know who Howard Stark is?”

“Howard Stark: founder and chief executive officer of Stark Industries; weapons manufacturer; engineer; associate of the now defunct Strategic Scientific Reserve; founder of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division,” the Asset recites like a steady stream of data from a computer. “Threat Level 2.”

“Yes,” the commander hums, disingenuously, in a way that gets the Asset’s heart climbing into his throat. “That is him.”

There is a knee-jerk reaction in the Asset to ask the commander the reason behind this line of questioning, but he knows better than that; he’s learnt his lesson the hard way.

The Asset’s purpose is to listen, not question.

“Do you understand the concept of soulmates, Soldat?” the commander asks, suddenly.

The Asset hesitates. “Yes, commander,” he answers him, haltingly.

“Good, now, do you understand what this name on your wrist means?”

The Asset tenses. “All evidence and all existing data indicate that Antonia Margaret Stark is the soulmate of the Asset,” he intones.

The commander regards him for a moment, before a strange, greedy glint enters his eyes.

It is not for the Asset to judge the intentions of his superiors, but the look in his commander’s eyes turns his stomach.

“You have a new mission, Soldat,” the commander declares.

The Asset straightens.

“You will find this girl, collect her and bring her back to base,” the commander orders. “Understood?”

The Asset nods. “Mission understood,” he says, dully.

The commander’s lips twist upwards at the side. “Congratulations, Soldat,” he taunts, on his way out of the Asset’s cell. “You will finally have someone to share your life with.”

* * *

The handlers lead him to the weapons room in this HYDRA base, a new one in North America that he hadn’t recognised when he had come out of the cryogenic chamber (although, he supposes that isn’t much, considering he hardly ever remembers anything of substance once he comes out of the chamber – the chair functions well).

This is a mission of retrieval, so the number of weapons necessary is limited, and in any case, he is enough of a weapon on his own. His mask goes on first, the metal tightening around his jaw like a muzzle, forcing him to breathe through the slits in the front. He straps down several combat knives to his uniform, in places where they aren’t easily detected, and holsters two guns, one to his back and one to his front.

Two will be enough.

They give him an unassuming sleeper car, and when he sits in the driver’s seat, places his hands on the wheel, the next moves (ignition, seatbelt, stick shift, gas), they all come like second nature to him, when he had thought he’d just flounder in front of the wheel until the handlers dragged him out by the hair and bludgeoned him with their sticks until he cowered on the floor.

He shakes his head, because it is a strange thought to have; the memory is so vivid, yet he can’t place it in his mind, could never have given a date or a time or a reason for it, yet it’s there.

He is not far from Long Island. His investigation informs him that his target, one Antonia Margaret Stark, was born at Mount Sinai Hospital, three weeks premature, diagnosed with transient tachypnoea of the newborn, which, coupled with her premature birth, indicates that she will be kept in the neonatal intensive care unit and released in approximately forty-two hours.

This bodes well for the Asset, as the drive from Baton Rouge to Manhattan will ensure that he will only arrive at Mount Sinai Hospital in a good twenty-one hours, and this will give him time to inspect the area and devise a plan to slip inside the hospital, collect the target and deliver her to the base, as per the commander’s orders.

His mission will be completed.

* * *

Much to his displeasure, he is delayed.

The original estimation for the target’s retrieval is postponed for seven days while the target recovers in the intensive care unit.

He waits until night to make his invasion into the hospital, just when the nurses and doctors make their changeover. He jumps down from the vent, into a deserted, dimly-lit corridor, onto the balls of his feet, which don’t make a sound as he pads down the corridor towards the neonatal intensive care unit.

He had prepared for guards, as is the standard for men of Howard Stark’s worth but was surprised when the only individuals who visited the unit and the target were nurses, an occasional doctor, and a weary Maria Stark driven in a wheelchair by a tall, well-dressed, lean man that the Asset identifies as Edwin Jarvis, Howard Stark’s butler and an accomplice of Margaret Carter in her days at the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

He slips inside the unit without disturbing the structural integrity of the overall room (should a guard or a nurse or a doctor pass by later, they would never know someone was inside). There are a series of taps just on the inside of the door, bearing tubs of antibacterial hand gel _._

He doesn’t know what prompts him, but he slips off his leather gloves and washes his hands thoroughly with the sterilising soap a good four times before shutting the water off.

 _The target is already impaired_ , he reasons to himself.

The Asset should not increase the malfunction.

The lights are dimmed, and everything is quiet, but he can see a number of plastic incubators lining the walls. The entire room has a thick, aseptic smell which makes his nose ache, even through the mask, but he presses forward until he reaches the only occupied incubator at the far corner of the room.

The first thing that the Asset thinks is that the target is very small.

The second thing that the Asset thinks is that the target is very red.

And, for some strange reason, the Asset finds himself smiling, which is only strange because he cannot actually recall an instance in his operation history where he has smiled.

As far as he is aware, the act of smiling is not within his system protocols.

As if the target is aware of his observation, she opens her eyes and turns her head to stare at him through the incubator walls.

For a moment, he panics, because his research has informed him that newborns are prone to the shedding of tears frequently and he has no existing protocol of attending to this mode of communication.

In the next moment, her hazy, light-coloured eyes fix on him and something heavy and painful wilts in him, warmth blossoming low in his belly. Her thin lips twitch, almost involuntary, and his own smile broadens.

He stills.

This is not regulation; there is no smiling, no warmth, no softness in his directives.

He will have to report for asset maintenance; the very thought sends needles clawing under his nailbeds.

There is a chart, hooked onto the base of the target’s incubator, which he procures for himself, and turns the pages.

_The target is experiencing delayed reabsorption of fluid from the lung. The target is currently maintained in 15% ambient oxygen. The ambient oxygen was steadily lowered from its initial 35% ambient oxygen at time of entry into the unit. The target was given a continuous intravenous glucose and bicarbonate infusion, but this was removed by the nurses earlier this morning. There is improved air entry and the return of the respiratory rate to normal. The target will be discharged tomorrow._

While his research does not provide an intelligible understanding of the medical jargon used in the target’s chart, the note left by the doctors that the target is to be discharged tomorrow indicates that the target is able to be removed from the incubator without fear of further impairment.

Thankfully, the target is only connected to the monitors surrounding the incubator through a ventilation mask.

He carefully unplugs the ventilator from the power point, so that it won’t disturb the vital signs monitor, before lifting up the lid of the incubator and going to withdraw the mask from the target, who stares up at him, guilelessly, as if trusting every action of his in relation to her.

It makes him falter for just a moment, as a vicious self-loathing wraps around his neck like a noose, his hand hovering just above the mask (self-loathing is not integrated into his protocols; _he is malfunctioning_ ).

The faith in this child, barely seven days into this world, affirms him in a way that the Asset has never experienced with any other individual he has encountered (although, those encounters have always ended with those individuals dead, so they may not appropriate to liken the target to).

Her gaze roots him to the spot, prevents him from continuing with removing the mask, and at this distance, his large hand looms over the infant and he’s very much aware of just how easily it would be to crush her skull, soft and supple as it is, between his fingers.

After all, the Asset was commissioned to be HYDRA’s savage in the shadows.

He withdraws his hand with disgust.

But the Asset has orders and the fear of rehabilitation, correction, the chair that makes him scream is enough for him to pull the mask from the child, even if every instinct within him is howling at him to stop.

_No._

The Asset has no instinct, only mission objective.

It is not within the limits of his functioning to question the commander’s demand for the target, but her future will not be pleasant, not if his existence is any measure of comparison.

But his mission objective still stands.

He slowly pulls her from the incubator, and she is small enough that she fits right into the palms of his hands.

Her eyes haven’t left his once. Instead, her small hand reaches out and wraps around his thumb, holding onto it with a strength he could never have imagined belonged to a child of her age. When he tries to pull it away from her, she holds fast, refusing to give into his will.

The Asset cocks his head.

_She is an abnormal target._

He does not understand how this infant could be his companion in anything (she is wilful, where he is obedient; she is trusting, where he is wary; she is brave, where he is silent), but he will deliver her as ordered.

The target looks much like a baby bird in the palm of his hands, which is odd because he fails to remember when he would have held a baby bird in order to make this comparison now, but the analogy fits. She has a full head of dark hair, thick, fluttery eyelashes, bony arms and legs and almost-translucent skin, but she looks so very content in his arms, like she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, like she actually preferred this monster’s arms, which has his previous unwanted smile returning swiftly and something like tears burning his eyes.

He does not know where the knowledge comes from, but he removes the glove on his flesh hand (the metal will hurt her, he knows it) and moves her upright, where she fits neatly against his neck, with her feet curled between them and his bare hand cradling her back.

She whines a little, struggling with the suck-swallow-breathe routine, nudging against his mask impatiently, until he smooths his palm across her back.

He chances a look at the door, knowing that the nurses will soon return to inspect the target for any deficiencies.

They must leave now.

He looks down at her, briefly, and she stares him down, almost as if promising him that she will be quiet while he removes them from the hospital.

He is more afraid than she is, he realises.

Their escape is almost anti-climactic. He manages to traverse the corridors until he climbs down the emergency exit staircases, getting through the double doors without disturbing the alarm.

He had prepared for this aspect of the retrieval by installing an infant car seat in the back of his unassuming sleeper car.

Surprisingly, the target is quiet throughout the entire return trip. In fact, she sleeps for majority of the time, which suits the Asset just fine, because prolonged contact with the target only results in terrifying and confronting feelings that would require additional disclosures to his handlers.

He feeds her frequently with formula he buys from an unobtrusive convenience store with kind, elderly proprietors, whose eyes he carefully avoids as he pays for the supplies with money that HYDRA had given him. She feeds well and without protest, for someone who had been held in the intensive care unit of a hospital for the first week of her life, almost like she knows how inexpedient yet gravely important this mission is for him and all she wants to do is make his life easier.

Often, he’ll look back in the rear-view mirror to find her awake, alert and just staring at him like she’s trying to reach down into his insides in order to figure out who he truly is, under the blood that he wipes onto his hands.

He doesn’t look at her anymore.

His mission parameters are fixed: he is to return the target to the base and his mission will be completed.

Twenty-three hours later, he is standing in front of the commander, his handlers and the medical unit at the base, a newborn cradled in his arms. He looks down at her, swaddled in HYDRA-issued blankets he found in the trunk of his car, as she blinks up at him.

“Excellent timing, Soldat,” the commander declares, the ever-present greedy glint in his eyes. “You will turn her over to the medical unit.”

The Asset’s mouth goes dry, but he does as he asks, placing the target carefully in one of the stern-faced nurses.

The target whines, and the Asset’s hands twitch at his sides.

The commander frowns; the Asset’s hackles rise.

“Is there a problem, Soldat?” the commander asks, lightly, but there’s a threat woven there.

Excessive verbalisation leads to punishment.

The Asset shakes his head, sharply. “The Asset wishes to query, commander,” he says, roughly.

“Oh?” the commander raises his eyebrow.

“The Asset was told that he would be given the target as a companion,” he intones.

The commander’s lips twitch. “Unfortunately, I don’t think the child would be an advantage in your line of work just yet, Soldat. She will need to be trained first. Perhaps, you will be involved in that.” He looks at the handlers. “Wipe him and then, put him back in cryo. He’s been out too long, and we wouldn’t want him remembering _this_ mission.”

The Asset does not struggle when men grab him by the arms, yanking him away from the medical unit and the commander and the target, whose face immediately contorts in an expression of misery, as she starts screaming, too loud and too broken for a newborn who was held in the neonatal intensive care unit for respiratory issues.

There’s an urge to kill the men holding him when she sobs, the noise eating at his bones, his flesh, until it strips him utterly raw, and _he should save her; he’s supposed to save her, right?_

But he lets them drag him away.

He lets them put him in the chair.

He lets them pin him down and stick that _thing_ onto his head.

He screams when it burns right through him; there’s blood in his eyes, in his mouth, in his throat; he thinks he might choke on the thickness of it.

There’s a boy, too small and too hurt, who laughs and chokes and can’t breathe.

There’s sharp, mountain air and the feel of a gun in his hands and a red-faced monster down below and the sound of a gunshot that turns the monster into a shower of blood.

There are _her_ eyes, the last thing he sees with such conviction, such clarity, that tears burn in his eyes.

When they pull him from the chair, he can’t even hold himself on his own two feet.

There’s nothing left inside him: no smiles, no softness, no fire.

Just empty noise.

They throw him in the cryogenic chamber.

He welcomes the ice when it wraps around his throat.

* * *

**1973**

The commander presents a child to him, not more than three years old.

She is small-made, even for her age, with a round face and wide, brown eyes and olive skin, and she has her dark hair tied back in a long braid that runs down her back.

She has a lonely, wretched look about her; she never meets his eyes, because she’s been warned not to. Her fingers tremble, like she’s aching to move, to hold something, to _do_ something, but has forced herself, out of habit and out of fear, to keep herself still.

 _Smart girl_ , he thinks.

Her eyes don’t stray at all from his feet.

He wonders if he’s the story they’ve told her to keep her obedient.

“Do you remember her, Soldat?” the commander taunts him.

“The Asset is not acquainted with her, commander,” the Asset says, gruffly.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t be.” The commander clucks his tongue, cheerfully, like he was expecting that answer and pleased when he received it. He closes his hands around the girl’s shoulders and squeezes. “She is our newest Asset.”

For a moment, the Asset wants to shake with relief, because surely this means he will finally be decommissioned, but the commander’s next words leave him cold.

“It may be a while before she reaches your expertise, of course, but we’re sure she will be a fine comrade for you.”

They want to turn this child into him; he wishes he could laugh at how absurd, how horrific it seems, but it doesn’t come out of him.

The Asset simply nods.

“Your training of her will commence in a year’s time, understood?” the commander asks, coldly.

The Asset lowers his head. “Understood, commander.”

This is the first time they have ever instructed him to handle the instruction of another, let alone a child – he wonders if they are setting him up to fail, just for a reason to decommission him, but he doubts they need a reason in the end.

“Do you have any questions, Soldat?” the commander asks, lightly.

The Asset shakes his head, sharply. “The Asset does not, commander.”

“Good,” the commander says, brightly. He looks at his men. “Take her back to her cell. The Asset knows his duty. His work will change the world; he will not waver.”

The girl doesn’t object when she’s grabbed by the arm roughly and hauled away from their company, but the Asset watches as she stretches her neck over her shoulder to stare at him as she’s taken from the room, as if she doesn’t care what is done to her, even for that little shred of defiance.

The Asset wishes he were half as brave as her.

* * *

**1974**

The Asset wakes up with a start when hears clanging from the cell beside his. He bites back a hiss of pain when the gears in his metal arm catch and the circuitry underneath knots. He sits upright, only to see the end, as a few operatives holding a struggling four-year-old between them, throw the child into the cell beside him.

She snaps at them with her teeth and one of them backhands her, sending her hurtling onto her bare, hollow cot.

The Asset wants to wince in sympathy, but he remains silent – there will be a bright blue-purple bruise blossoming across her cheekbone come tomorrow.

An operative catches him staring and turn on him, rapping a baton across the bars, which makes him flinch, the sharp echo of the sounds making his ears hurt.

“Mind your business, Soldat,” he threatens.

They leave, then, and the Asset watches them go, wondering how easily it would be to bend the bars open, slip through them, grab those men, snap their necks and leave a trail of bloody bodies behind him as he leaves.

But he won’t do that.

No, he is a good soldier.

Good soldiers are not disciplined, after all.

When the Asset turns back (he must not think such things, it will only ruin him), the girl is on her cot, arms wrapped around her knees, clothed in a white nightgown, her hair in a thick braid down her back – the image almost seems familiar, like he’s seen her this way before, but that can’t be; he’s never seen her before.

She stares at him like he’s an aberration; it makes something rage inside him.

“What?” he demands in a tone that has never left his mouth before.

The girl licks her lips and when her voice comes out, it comes like a chair scraping across a stone floor, all rough-hewn and stunted and rasping, as if she’s unaccustomed to speaking.

In this place, she might be.

“Your arm,” she whispers.

The Asset looks down at his metal arm. He will have to report structural decay once more, endure their swinging hands that could thrash him at a moment’s notice, and the violent, crippling pain, clawing up from his fingers right to where it’s anchored into the metal frame mounted onto his torso, inevitable once they start working on his arm (they are not concerned with his comfort, only his efficiency).

She clears her throat. “Your arm is damaged.”

The Asset inhales. “It will be repaired,” he explains.

“I can…” she trembles before shaking her head. “I can fix it,” she says, confidently.

The Asset narrows his eyes. “How?” he demands.

She bites her lip, before turning over her cushion and revealing a collection of corroded, discoloured tools.

The Asset starts. “Where did you-” he shakes his head, as he backs away against the wall.

They will be decommissioned for this.

Resistance is futile.

The girl shrugs. “They are not attentive,” she confesses, almost proudly.

The Asset shakes his head. “You should not have them,” he says, desperately. “You do not know what they will do.”

The girl crawls forward until she’s at the edge of the cell, peering at him through the bars. “I can fix your arm,” she insists, fisting one of the tools.

The Asset wants to scoff. “How?”

“Let me fix it,” she pushes, bravely. “I know how to fix it.”

The Asset looks down at his arm, where the plates have snagged, and the wiring underneath convulses viciously, sending pain hurtling all the way up to his shoulder and into his ribcage. It will be another six hours before he can show it to a technician, and have it repaired.

He wonders if the disobedience is worth the punishment.

The Asset makes his choice. He slides the metal arm through the bars between their cells.

Every line in the girl’s face softens. She doesn’t quite smile at him, but he can see that she wants to, or the urge comes to her.

She crosses her legs underneath her and props his hand on top of her knee. He doesn’t know where her knowledge comes from, but she seamlessly unscrews the plates where they’ve snagged and opens it up, revealing the wiring underneath. She pokes and prods for a few, brief moments, before she does _something_ to it, making the breath rush out of him in full swoop.

She looks at him, worriedly, with liquid brown eyes. “Did I hurt you?” she asks, quietly.

The Asset shakes his head. “No. There is no pain.”

Something akin to joy flickers in her face. “I disabled the pain receptors,” she explains. “You were in pain and I did not want to make it worse when I was fixing your arm, so I disarmed those particular wires.” She hesitates. “Are you angry?” she asks in a small voice.

The Asset shakes his head.

He wants to tell her that no technician has ever thought of or wanted to disengage the pain receptors in his arm while conducting maintenance, because relieving him of discomfort has never been a priority, not even for himself.

But that would be inappropriate.

He remains silent.

She keeps to herself for the most part, doesn’t question him or speak to him, and goes about her business, fiddling with the wires and circuits, untangling them where they twist together unnecessarily, loosening them where they need to breathe easier and removing those which look ragged and eaten by the electricity and absolutely of no use any longer. Once she’s done and she enables the pain receptors, she closes up the plating and the Asset pulls his arm back into his own cell. He shakes it out and it whirs and ticks as it accepts the girl’s modifications. Surprisingly, he feels nothing but the heavy weight of the arm, which always makes him slump a little to the side when he’s on his feet.

He barely bites back the tears that threaten to dampen his eyes.

“How?” he looks at her, curiously.

The girl shrugs and looks away. “I just watch the technicians sometimes. And sometimes, I can see it, what it looks like on the inside, how it works.” She gestures to the arm. “I see it with the computers, and this was not so complicated.”

The Asset looks down at his pliant, silver hand. He looks back at her. “I… thank you,” he says, fiercely.

The girl shuffles awkwardly on her cot. “You should not be in pain,” she says, simply.

She turns her back on him, sliding down until she’s lying flat on the cot. The Asset watches as she curls herself into a tiny ball, under the thin blanket she was given, which hardly combats the cold in the vault in which they are housed.

She quietly slips into sleep without another word to him.

The Asset stares down at his arm.

Structural decay must be reported for maintenance.

* * *

As his protocols dictate, the Asset reports the incident to his handlers the next morning. They order that the girl be brought inside. She comes in like a silent wraith, her arms held by handlers on either side of her, as if they feared she would run for her life if they slackened their hold just a little.

He wonders if she would – the girl is half yielding, half defiant, an earth-shattering blend in their world.

The handlers settle her in front of his handlers and the technicians who should have fixed his arm had the girl not reached him first.

“Did you do this?” the handler demands.

The girl stares him down, stoically.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

The girl remains silent.

The handler strikes her.

She does not make a sound.

 _Brave girl_ , he muses.

“She could be taught,” one technician says, suddenly.

The handler looks at him.

“She has talent; no one told her or instructed her on how to fix the Asset’s arm, but she did it anyway; she might be gifted,” the technician points out. “And the Asset is prone to damaging the arm during missions. Once she is at an age to accompany him, she would serve as his engineer. It would increase mission efficiency if he was not inhibited by physical impairment.”

The handler looks down at the girl, who stares right through him, like she is digging into his eyes and down into his soul and sifting through everything that makes him _someone_ , until the look in her dark, brown-gold eyes makes him turn away in discomfort.

The Asset is in awe.

The handler finally scowls and nods. “Fine. I will confirm with the commander, but now her training will also include technical education.” He grimaces. “Should’ve known that Howard Stark’s brat would be a fucking genius,” he mutters under his breath, unaware that the Asset’s enhanced hearing caught his every word.

 _The girl is the daughter of Howard Stark_ , he realises.

He can’t help but look down at the name he knows is etched across his wrist, even when covered with a thick black band: _Antonia Margaret Stark_.

He wonders if this girl and the girl on his wrist are one and the same.

“Did you hear me, girl?” the handler snaps, grabbing her by the wrist and shaking her slightly. “You are fortunate to not be beaten until you are black and blue; you should be grateful that we have recognised your aptitude and your potential contribution to the mission.”

The girl stays silent.

She is young, but intelligent to know that no words would have been welcomed.

“Soldat.”

The Asset snaps to attention.

“You will begin her instruction now. The commander wills it so. It is time she proves her worth,” the handler says, snidely.

The Asset nods. “The Asset will comply.”

“You will take her to the training rooms now and begin your education. The commander will be reviewing your progress, so we expect results very soon. Understood?”

The Asset nods.

“Good, take her away,” the handler orders.

The Asset motions for the girl to follow him as he leaves the room, and they creep through the corridors until they reach the training rooms.

“Run,” he says, immediately.

The girl looks up at him, curiously.

“Run,” he orders. “You will run this entire circumference of this room until I allow you to stop.”

The girl stares at him for a moment, but she does as she is told, bolting off around the room.

He watches her in silence, waiting until he can hear her breathing turn a little too heavy and her heart pump a little too fast, before he tells her to stop. She comes to a clean end on her second kilometre, which is good, considering her age.

He tells her so, and she takes the compliment-slash-criticism with a straight face.

Six months later, she can run four kilometres without having to resort to jogging, and there’s something akin to pride in him. She builds enough muscle tone and endurance that if all goes well, if the commander allows him to, he can begin her combat training when she turns five.

She will never be the beast that he is, but she will be HYDRA’s knife in the dark, just the same.

* * *

**1975**

“Again,” he orders.

She raises her fists.

She punches, he blocks.

She punches, he blocks.

He cuffs her, she ducks.

She kicks the inside of his knee and he knows a lesser man would have stumbled.

“Again,” he repeats.

She raises her hands.

He swipes at her, she ducks, but then she wraps her arms around his wrist, throws herself upwards, so that her feet are propped on his thigh, before flipping herself over him, landing on the mat behind him.

“Good,” he says, gruffly. “You are small; pliancy is an advantage.”

The girl stares at him.

The Asset turns away from her; her eyes are too sharp for him.

He clears his throat.

“We will begin your weapons training soon.”

* * *

**1976**

“Shoot,” he orders.

The girl raises her gun and fires at the mannequin, hitting her target with every single shot.

Between the eyes, throat, shoulder, heart, stomach, thigh and foot.

“Again,” he orders.

She flips it to the other hand and does it again, flips it to the other hand and again, flips it to the other hand and again.

Her aim is perfect.

“Good.”

He walks over to replace the mannequin and when he turns around, the girl is staring at him again.

His shoulders slump in dread.

“What is it?” he asks, impatiently.

“You never call me anything,” she says, simply.

“What are you talking about?” he demands.

“The others… the handlers… they call me _girl_ or _brat_ or _engineer_ , but you just bark at me.”

The Asset raises an eyebrow. “And?”

She cocks her head. “Do I have a name?” she asks him, innocently.

In that moment, he knows the answer.

 _Antonia_.

He knows the exact point in time she came into this world, the exact moment her name burned itself across his skin; he _remembers_ – he isn’t supposed to remember.

_Antonia Margaret Stark is your name._

_You are fortunate._

“Assets do not have names,” he says instead, coldly. “Again.”

Guilt forms across her features and she looks down at her hand. His gaze follows hers, only to jolt in shock, finding the gun in pieces in her hands.

“Did you disassemble the gun?” he wonders out loud.

The girl shifts on her feet. “I was just curious,” she says, defensively. “I wanted to see how it fit together.”

The Asset will need to teach her to hide the want in her eyes; want has no place in HYDRA; they are not creatures of want, only creatures of duty.

He pauses. “Can you reassemble it?” he asks, curiously.

She nods, confidently, and her fingers work deftly; in a matter of minutes, the gun is grasped between her fingers, whole and immaculate, as if she had never touched it in the first place.

“Fire it,” he orders.

She turns back to her new mannequin and shoots once more.

Once more, her aim, her discharge, her stance, her execution is perfect.

* * *

The girl still sleeps in the cell beside his.

She is a quite cellmate; she sleeps silently and wakes up without any noise. She does not patter around the cell once the handlers leave them alone. She has no nightmares, which, he imagines, for children, is quite odd.

But one night, they both wake up with a start.

There are noises coming from beyond the vault, loud enough that the girl can also hear them without enhanced hearing.

She brushes her hair away from her face.

“What is it?” she whispers, sitting up.

The Asset slips off the edge of his cot. “I don’t know,” he says, roughly.

There is banging and screaming and shouting and it doesn’t bode well for either of them, but the Asset steels himself, nonetheless.

He slips forward, until he’s braced against the bars, in the corner of the cell that has the best vantage point to the entrance.

The girl hisses something at him and he turns, curiously.

“What is it?” he snaps, restlessly.

She motions him to come over to the grilling that separate their two cells. She shoves something insistently into his hand, and when he looks down, he sees a small firearm, just big enough for his palm.

The Asset stares down in surprise.

“How did you get this?” he growls. “Did you steal it from the weapons room?”

The girl shakes her head. Her face is pale, not with fear or worry, but it forms her natural complexion.

“I made it,” she says, quietly.

He stares down at the firearm, remembers the easy way she had disassembled and reassembled the firearm in the shooting range, remembers how deftly she had opened up the innards of his arm and mended everything that was malfunctioning, and looks back at her, wondering if this girl is something odd, just like him.

He knows that he is more than most men; he hears more, he lifts more, he fights harder, he sees further, he runs faster, he can shatter a windshield with his bare, flesh hand, smash concrete into grain with a single blow, he heals faster, he responds quicker.

But this girl, this girl is ordinary, breakable; she injures easily; her senses aren’t as boundless as his; but she is intelligent; perhaps, she is even more intelligent than him or their handlers; otherwise, how else would she have constructed a firearm in a cell with nothing but a cot, a pillow and a few tools under her sheets?

“Will this work?”

He needs to know.

The girl nods and there’s a furrow to her brow, a flare in her eyes, as if she is offended by the question.

“Good.”

The vault bursts open and men storm into the area, flashing guns. He recognises a few; some are handlers who have defected, some are strangers who are attempting a mutiny.

It does not matter; they will all die, nonetheless.

He raises the gun and fires, shooting all that come for him in the head until the floor is littered with dead bodies. He turns, only to find a man charging at the girl, throwing open the door to her cell and seizing her by the arm.

She doesn’t scream, not as he would’ve expected from any child her age. Instead, she climbs him like a tree, until she’s sitting on top of his shoulders. She grabs him by the hair, yanking it back, and opening his throat with a rusted screwdriver. Blood sprays everywhere, but it doesn’t seem to bother the girl, as she jumps on top of the next man, stabbing him in the fleshy part of his eye.

There is one last man, who grabs her by the hair and pulls her off her latest victim. She drops the screwdriver and clutches at where he pulls at her hair. Her jaw is clenched, as if she is barely biting back a sound of pain.

The Asset takes pity on her. She has done well.

He raises the firearm and shoots the man between the eye and he falls, taking the girl with him, who flips back onto her feet.

She seizes the screwdriver from where it rolls absentmindedly on the ground, holding it with the sharp end pointed outwards, like a weapon, just in case anyone else decides to attack them.

Hours later, operatives come by and relieve them of the corpses, dragging them out in bloody streaks that are sure to leech into the floor. The handlers demand to know where he got the firearm from and when he tells them the girl made it, they look at her like they’ve just unearthed something they hadn’t been expecting.

The next day, her physical training is decreased from ten hours to seven hours, and she spends the rest of the fourteen hours of her day with the technicians, being educated in something he is not privy to.

* * *

**1978**

“Is she ready, Soldat?” the commander asks, curiously.

The Asset frowns. “I do not understand the question, commander,” he says, hesitantly.

He is hit in the stomach with the stun baton, the electricity crawling all over him until he crumples in the ground.

He looks up with bloodshot eyes, only to find the commander kneeling in front of him, an earthy smile on his face, a stark contrast to the violence the Asset knows the man is capable of.

“Do you truly not understand the question, Soldat?” the commander asks, slowly, the glint in his eyes warning the Asset to tread carefully.

The Asset licks his lips. “If you are referring to her capability in the field, commander, I believe the girl is ready. She has already shown her skill when our base was breached,” he points out.

The commander hums, as if he is considering the Asset’s testimonial. “That she has,” he muses. “Very well. It seems as though she will be joining you on your next mission, sooner rather than later. She has exceeded all of our expectations, in all honesty, even from a young age. Clearly, our decision to acquire her was a beneficial one.”

The commander surveys him, curiously, almost as if he’s searching for something inside the Asset, which would be strange, because the Asset is whatever HYDRA wills him to be.

The commander shakes his head. “You will go to Iran for your next mission. It is time that we shape this world once more.”

“How is it to be done, commander?”

“What do you know of Iran’s current political situation, Asset?” the commander asks him.

He’s always pushing for answers, always digging in, hoping for some soft spot that he can punish and brutalise – the Asset has become clever in destroying his soft spots.

“Iran is currently governed by Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the Shah of Iran, under the Persian monarchy. The leadership is supported by the United States. However, there are anti-monarchist sentiments developing in Iranian society, due to the growing westernisation policies and totalitarian measures taken by the Shah in order to preserve the legitimacy of his reign.”

The commander nods. “You are to stoke the flames of revolution, Soldat.”

The Asset braces himself. “What are the mission parameters, commander?” he intones.

“On September 8, there is to be a religious demonstration in Tehran’s Jaleh Square. We have intelligence that the Shah will soon be declaring martial law. You will provoke violence between the protestors and the Imperial Army. There will be no compromise between the anti-monarchists and the imperial regime. Understood?”

The Asset nods. “Understood, commander.”

* * *

Four days later, he and the girl leave for Tehran.

It’s a forty-five-minute drive from Baton Rouge to Breaux Bridge, where Bordelon Airpark and the cargo plane that will carry them into Tehran are located.

The Asset drives in silence, and the girl is an absolute wraith in the passenger seat beside him, the leather swallowing her small-made form completely.

Ten or so miles into the journey, the car starts to sputter, threateningly, like it will give out any minute. Frustrated, the Asset pulls the car over to the side, throwing open the door and lumbering out. He opens up the hood and stares at the engine.

For the life of him, he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Shall I take a look?” the girl asks, solemnly, from the front seat, her small face peeking out over the dashboard.

The Asset nods – she can repair his arm and make guns out of thin air; if anyone can fix the car, it will be her. “Come,” he says, shortly.

The girl climbs out of the car, following him over to the front of the car. She clambers up the bumper, balancing herself precariously on top of the car, but he doubts that she will fall (if she has braced herself on top of a man’s shoulders and impaled him in the eye, then she will not fall off a car).

“Can you fix it?” he asks, concerned.

There is a limited time in which they must board the plane; if they should miss their transport, the commander will not be happy.

There will be correction.

The girl nods, though, however absentmindedly, her hands already wrist-deep inside the combustion chamber.

“Do we have tools?” she asks him, suddenly.

“No,” the Asset replies, unhelpfully.

The girl makes a sound of frustration and discontent that would’ve wrought a backhand by one of the handlers had she made it in different company. But, for some foolish reason, she ignores the threat that he so obviously poses.

The girl is both clever and utterly stupid.

“You need to pull this out for me,” the girl declares, jumping down. “Since we don’t have tools, you’re going to have to do it.”

The Asset approaches her, peering under the hood, until his eyes catch on what she was gesturing to: the little plug in the cylinder head of the engine, slicked with oil.

“I’ve already disconnected the battery,” she tells him. “But you’ll have to unscrew it with your hands.”

“I require further instructions,” he points out.

“Okay, so, first, you need to disconnect the spark plug wire,” she orders. “Grip the plug wire from the base at the spark plug and pull back on the wire to disconnect it.” 

The Asset doesn’t require much force to do as she asks, and with a slight wrench of his wrist, he is holding the spark plug in his hands.

“Next?”

The girl holds out one of her arms, for some reason. “I need you to tear off some of my sleeve, so I can clean out the cylinder.”

The Asset rips off scraps of her sleeve, wads them into a ball and hands them to her. She climbs back on top of the car and cleans up the area around the spark plug holes. The rag comes away with debris, dirt and oil soiling one end, and she rubs down the spark plug as well, before placing it back in his palm and motioning for him to clamp it back onto the engine.

“Will the car work now?” he asks, roughly.

The girl shrugs. “The spark plug was the problem, so it should be fine now.”

When they get back inside the car and he turns the ignition. Much to his satisfaction, the car thrums smoothly under his hands, and he barely resist the urge to breathe a sigh of relief.

They will have enough time to reach Breaux Bridge.

The cargo plane is waiting for them when they arrive, and he parks the car in a side street.

“Don’t talk to the pilot,” he orders, as they approach the plane lying in wait for them.

The girl frowns at him. “Why, though?”

“Just, _don’t_ ,” he says, sharply.

“Mate, I’ve been waiting for you forever,” the pilot complains in a thick, Cockney accent.

The Asset narrows his eyes.

The pilot scrunches his face up. “Yeah, they said you wouldn’t talk much.”

The Asset doesn’t need clarification as to whom he’s referring.

The pilot rolls his eyes. “Fine, get in, then.” He finally spots the girl hidden by the Asset’s much larger frame. “Oh, hello, there, love,” he says, kindly.

The girl doesn’t appreciate the term of endearment, because her face takes on a similar countenance to when their cells had been raided by those traitors.

He wonders how she would kill this one – she’s proven herself creative.

The girl wisely keeps her mouth shut, as he had told her to, but her eyes and mouth thin just enough that lets the man know that his words weren’t appreciated.

He laughs a little awkwardly, almost nervously, as if he knows their (or at least the Asset’s) reputation and he just realised that getting on their bad sides would not be conducive to a continued existence.

“Let’s get going, shall we?” the pilot mutters, turning on his feet and lumbering up into the aircraft.

The Asset motions for the girl to go inside first. She eyes the immensity of the plane for a brief moment, before she scrambles inside, the Asset following her.

The air inside the plane is dank and musty, as if the doors hadn’t been opened up in years. There’s filth rained across the floor and the Asset pads across to the darkest, deepest corner, tall enough for his bulk, so that he can stand at attention.

The girl joins him, but she elects to curl herself on the floor, her legs tucked underneath her.

“Sleep,” he orders. “It will take us days to reach Tehran, and there will be no time to sleep once we are there. It is best if you make it up now, as much as you can.”

The girl concedes to his wisdom and shuffles down onto the floor, resting her head on folded arms. Minutes later, he hears her breathing quieten and her chest slow, and readies himself to remain awake until the cargo plane finally descends in Tehran.

This will be a long, tedious flight. 

* * *

An odyssey later, the cargo plane finally lands in Nowshahr. The pilot is happy to see the back of them as they make their way to a rental car, which will take them the four-hour journey to Tehran, where their commander has already booked a motel room for them, under the name of Hirsa Moti. Thankfully, this time, they don’t have a problem with their car, and they reach the motel early enough in that day that they will have sufficient time to scope out Jaleh Square, before the demonstration tomorrow morning.

The Asset keeps his mask off while checking into the motel, and ignores the clerk’s unfavourable muttering underneath his breath – he is too pale for them; luckily, the girl is much darker and is saved the resentment.

That night, he allows the girl to sleep a full eight hours before waking her at the crack of dawn on the 8th of September (this is the only time he will give her this reprieve; she must be regulated for the future). He pulls her along the streets and alleys, scrutinising her as she climbs the length of a building before perching on top of the terrace like a cat, as she waits for him to join her – fortunately for her, she is quick enough that climbing comes easy to her, even if this is her first time scaling an entire building. He clambers up after her, at twice the speed, landing on his toes on top of the edge of the parapet.

“Why are we here?” she asks, curiously, cocking her head.

“We are to stoke the flames of revolution,” he informs her.

The girl frowns, as if displeased with the vagueness of his answer. “How are we to do that?” she demands.

“There will be a protest against in the square below today; the people will be protesting the Shah of Iran and the Pahlavi dynasty. The Shah has already declared martial law in order to cope with the growing animosity of the monarchy.”

“And so, we are to… stoke the flames of revolution?” the girl questions, wilfully.

“Yes; the commander has ordered that we are to provoke violence between the protestors and the Imperial Army, who will arrive to contain the protestors.”

The girl eyes the sniper rifle that he has set up on the parapet. “By shooting them?”

“By shooting the protestors,” he corrects. “If one is shot, they will all react and there will be no compromise.”

The girl nods, as if accepting his plan, not that she had any say in the matter, and then hesitates, visibly. “The Shah is like the… _commander_ of Iran?” she questions, her brow furrowing.

The Asset nods, stiffly. “Yes.”

“And they do not like him?” she asks.

The Asset tenses. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“They do not consider his policies worth following,” he says, simply, but vague enough that she will not press further.

The girl has a habit of pressing further, and this is a topic that incites disobedience.

The girl is punished enough.

They watch from above as the protesters begin their demonstration against the monarchy, the Shah’s troops coming to meet them in objection, in the large square. They face off, the protesters screaming at them while the troops loudly inform them to disperse, but the protesters refuse.

Tempers are high, tension is thick and cloying, and that’s when the Asset takes his shot.

He blinks into the scope, before pulling the trigger, the bullet flying through the air and striking an unsuspecting protestor right in the throat. He collapses into the crowd with a shower of blood, and the protesters scream in rage, which turns on the Shah’s troops. One protester, at the front of the demonstration, lunges for a soldier, grabbing him by the neck and throwing him down, beating him into the ground until his face is an unrecognisable mass of flesh, blood and bone. The troops, seeing the act of aggression and the animal-like fury of their opponents, fire their guns without a moment’s hesitation into the crowd, mowing down dozens of people in their own delusional attempt to contain the uproar.

The Asset pulls away from the rifle, beginning to pack it up meticulously. He then remembers the girl, who is still standing beside him, leaning over the parapet, staring into the violence below them, pale with disgust and fear.

Her hands are shaking.

But she doesn’t say anything, not even when they descend the building, not even when they slip back into their motel room, pack up their meagre possessions, throw away street food wrappers, not even when they make their trek back to Nowshahr, so that another cargo plane will take them back to Baton Rouge.

She only opens her mouth on the flight, back pressed against the wall, slumped on the floor, with her arms wrapped around her legs as if she’s perseveringly trying to make herself look and feel as small as she can (he wonders, with a pang, if she’s frightened of him now; if he has finally taught her that last lesson).

“Is this what we do?” she asks with a small voice. “Is this what you want me to do?”

She looks up at him with sharp brown eyes, her gaze brutal enough to almost knock his legs out from underneath him.

But somehow, he remains steadfast (he must be steadfast, or he will be disciplined).

“We shape the world,” he answers, coldly. “And we are creatures of duty, not want.” 

* * *

**1979**

They are being transferred to another base.

The Asset is not permitted to know the location, but he follows the orders nonetheless, along with the girl, who seems surprised that they are leaving Baton Rouge.

She has been fortunate enough so as to remain in the same base for all these years.

He, on the other hand, has been lucky; he doesn’t even remember faces when they pull him from the cryostasis pod.

The base is somewhere in Europe, judging by the plains and plains of dewy, fresh and earthy grass and great, big mountains, crowned with ice, looming over them.

Somewhere near Salzburg, just over the German border, he comes to know later.

For some reason, that strikes him as wrong, being here in Germany; he shouldn’t be in Germany.

But he forces himself not to care; he’s not supposed to care.

“Soldat.”

He stands at attention.

This is a new commander.

“You have a new mission.”

The Asset waits.

“Our friends, the Soviets, are having some trouble with the United States Ambassador to Afghanistan; it appears that he’s been causing some trouble for the Soviets to get their work done over there.”

“What are the instructions, commander?”

“Adolph Dubs, the ambassador, will be seized on his drive to the US Cultural Center in Kabul. You and the Soviet soldiers will then take him to a safe house, where he will be held. Ensure that by the end of it, Dubs is dead. This will give the USSR great influence over the Afghani government, as the US-Afghan relationship lies in tatters. Understood?”

The Asset nods, sharply. “We are to work with the Soviet soldiers on this, commander?” he clarifies.

The commander hums in agreement. “Yes. They will meet you in Kabul, but if you must hang them out to dry, do so. You are a greater resource to us than some two-bit thugs will ever be to the Soviet Union, understood?”

“Understood, commander,” the Asset drones. He hesitates. “Am I to take the girl with me, commander?” he wonders out loud.

The commander looks thoughtful for a brief moment. “I have read the report from Tehran; she was useful, was she not?”

“She was, commander,” the Asset agrees.

“Then, you will take her with you. I will expect that she participates though; we have no tolerance for dead weight.” 

“As you wish, commander.”

Two hours later, the girl and him are on route to Kabul. It requires a drive from their base over to Frankfurt, which services the only flights, both public and private, to Kabul.

The girl is silent throughout the trip; she doesn’t even question him when he tells her the mission parameters. She just stares out of the window, staring at everything beyond their base, everything that could’ve easily belonged to a girl of her age, had her fate been different.

It takes days, but they finally land successfully in Kabul. There are four men waiting at the airport for them, in black tactical gear, who greet them, half in legitimate terror at the Winter Soldier’s reputation and half in cocksure confidence that they’ll be able to handle him should he pose a threat.

They won’t be able to; he knows that.

They don’t understand why the girl is accompanying him, giving both of them a slightly mocking look, as if he is nothing more than a child minder.

The girl could snap their necks before they could even reach their guns if she so wished.

 _Fools_ , he thinks.

They take them back to their safe house, somewhere in downtown Kabul, where there are filthy, stained mattresses littering the floor, along with a large corkboard, upon which the men have clearly detailed the ambassador’s routine. The girl looks at him, hopefully, and he gives her a nod. She goes over to the corkboard and surveys it, intently, making her own judgments of their skills.

“Are there flaws?” he demands in thick German.

He would’ve gone with Russian, had their companions not been Soviet themselves.

“ _Ja_ ,” she murmurs, still staring at the board. “Firstly, a safe house is too straightforward, when our plan is to destabilise relations between the United States and Afghanistan. No, this should be a public exhibition, in order to undermine the Afghani government. The world must know this is happening. We should stage the kidnapping in broad daylight, have some or all of these men dress up in Afghan police uniforms and seize the ambassador’s car, and then take them to somewhere central, such as a hotel or an apartment. Secondly, they have not accounted for the ambassador’s driver after they have taken him to the hotel room. Will he be dealt with, or is there some other plan for him? If he is not dealt with, then he will simply give the information of the kidnapping to the authorities, if it is to be a simple kidnapping. Thirdly, if they are to hold the ambassador captive instead of attending to him, they will need some ransom demand to give to the embassy and the United States government, otherwise it will become suspicious. The world must not suspect a Soviet motive here.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” he asks.

“We should send the driver back to the embassy to give a ransom demand,” the girl answers. “It would deal with both problems, but it should be something simple, as if they are average terrorists, and this is some personal, domestic vendetta of theirs. Perhaps, the return of certain prisoners that the Afghani have in their possession?”

She looks at him then, as if wondering what he will make of her opinion.

“If you think this best,” he says, finally, inclining his head.

The girl has proven herself more than trustworthy in matters of the mind.

The girl nods, a little satisfied by his faith. “We must also ensure that this becomes a blunder. We will wait for the police to come to us; as it is still Afghan soil, their police will come first. The Americans will wait, considering the threat to one of their own, but the Soviets should whisper in the Afghani police’s ear. If there is a commotion, it will be easy to dispatch the target without anyone realising it was us.”

The Asset nods, and turns back to the Soviet men, who are incredibly displeased that he has turned the reins over to this slip of a girl. He relays all of their suggestions, and their frowns turn deeper, before they meld into sneers.

“Why should we listen to anything this brat says?” one demands in Russian.

The Asset raises an eyebrow. “She has informed you of the flaws in your plan, and you do not wish to listen?”

The men exchange looks.

“She is just a child; what could she possibly know?” another asks, coldly. He then turns to the girl. “Children are meant to be seen, not heard.”

The girl’s face tightens as if she is barely holding herself back from saying something insulting, in their native Russian, no less.

She knows how to keep her mouth shut around the handlers, but these men, he doubts she owes them any compliance.

The Asset exhales. “This one does more than just seeing and hearing,” he says, simply.

The first man narrows his eyes. “You might welcome her disobedience, but don’t think we aren’t prepared to teach her a lesson if she steps out of line.”

The Asset wants to smile, but smiling isn’t in his protocols: they don’t know what this girl is capable of.

“You may try,” he says, vaguely.

The girl remains straight-faced, but she is still wilful enough to lunge at them if they push her, so he leads her out into the room they will share. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something strange, something forceful inside him that resolves that she should not be left alone with these people.

“Do not talk to them,” he orders.

“You told me that about the pilots,” she complains.

“These men are worse than the pilots, understand? _Do not talk to them._ ”

The girl huffs and turns to face the wall.

“You will sleep now,” he advises, a little more gently. “You will be up at dawn.”

“For the mission?” she guesses.

“Yes,” he replies.

The next morning, at dawn, the girl awakens, and he makes her run the circumference of the compound, five times, before she climbs up to the roof and back down, over and over again.

“It will happen in an hour,” he tells her.

The girl’s face flickers with surprise. “What is our role?”

“We will wait for them to bring the ambassador to the Kabul Room. There is a room that has been booked by a false name. We are not to get involved unless there is a possibility that they will fail with their task, understood?”

“Yes,” the girl replies, stoically.

An hour later, the four men drag in a trussed-up, balding man to the room that was booked by the soldiers’ financers in the Kabul Hotel. One is dressed in an Afghani police uniform, which is slightly streaked with blood, from where, the Asset assumes, the ambassador fought back and required some incentive to remain still.

“We have sent the driver back to the embassy,” one of the men says, reluctantly, as if he didn’t want to carry out the girl’s suggestions, on pride and ego alone. “He will tell the Americans of the kidnapping and of our supposed demands.”

“Good,” the Asset says, shortly, while the others tie the ambassador to a chair to wait for the inevitable phone call from the authorities.

The authorities – the Afghani police, the American embassy – call, and the soldiers answer, demanding that the government release certain prisoners, listing names of men imprisoned for subversion. The police and the embassy argue with them, attempt to come to a compromise in order to provoke the release the ambassador, but the Soviet men aren’t having it – there are reasons behind their actions, an ambition they want to forge, an existence they wish for Mother Russia and Afghanistan, and the release of the ambassador will not bring to life any of these things.

“You better hope this works,” one of the men threatens him.

“And why is that?” the girl declares, boldly, in Russian.

The Asset shoots her a warning look, but she returns it with a blank stare.

The man, practically shaking with fury and tension, storms up to the girl. She straightens just a little, her muscles turning taut, preparing herself to react physically should she be required to.

“You changed our plan, you little bitch; this could’ve all gone a different way, but you thought you were such a little know-it-all, so much fucking smarter than all of us. If we fail because of you and your insolent desire to play with the adults, you _will_ take responsibility. If this goes to hell, you better believe we won’t be going down without cracking your skull open first, got it?”

“Enough,” the Asset says, coldly.

The man scoffs, sparing him with a cursory, disdainful glance. “And I’ll be sure to pick a time when your guard dog isn’t there to protect you,” he threatens.

The girl simply raises an eyebrow and promptly, kicks his knees out, sending him to the ground. Before he can realise what’s happening, she has the sharp edge of a carving knife pressed against the soft flesh of his throat.

With just a twitch of her wrist, she could open up his artery and spill his blood all out onto the floor.

“You were saying?” she drawls, withdrawing her hand and strapping her knife back to wherever she had been keeping it.

The man stumbles to his feet, rubbing the back of his knee, and spits something disgusting at her in Russian before going back over to the rest of his men.

When the girl looks at him next, he’s certain that she can see just how unimpressed he is, but she ignores it, preferring to fiddle with the radio on top of the chest of drawers, opening up the back and tinkering with the wiring.

He remains silent himself, watchful from the corner, on his guard, just in case the men decide to take their frustration and panic out on the girl, whom they’ve already labelled as the source of all their problems. While he knows the girl is perfectly capable of handling them, as she already has mere minutes ago, the commander will be angry should they return with the girl requiring maintenance.

At least, that’s how he reasons it to himself.

Hours later, he hears the sound of sirens in the distance. He straightens and beckons the girl over.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, plainly, in German.

_Clever girl._

“The police are coming now, as you predicted,” he informs her.

She goes taut. “What will we do?”

“We will attend to the ambassador and leave before they see us,” he says, after a moment.

“But they will not let us simply leave,” the girl protests.

“They will not,” he agrees. “But they do not have a right to voice their opinion.”

The girl nods. “Shall we leave now?”

“On my signal,” he advises.

“Do we kill them?” the girl asks, lowly, a little hesitantly (he remembers that she has never killed anyone before).

“No, leave them unconscious, but not deep enough that they will awaken before the police storm the room.”

The girl exhales and nods. He makes a sign with his index finger, the one she knows like the back of her hand, and she lunges for the nearest Soviet soldier, climbing up to his neck and wrapping her garotte around his neck until his eyes roll back into his head and he loses consciousness.

He, on the other hand, is a simpler creature. All he has to do is punch them swiftly in the head and the blow knocks them out, completely. He repeats this once more, while the girl garottes the last soldier to unconsciousness and flips back to the ground. A gun slips into the Asset’s hand from where he had strapped it against his thigh and he aims the barrel between the ambassador’s eyes, who starts to struggle, realising this is the end for him.

He shoots with no preamble and the bullet kills the man instantly; he slumps forward in his bindings, with only a thin, congealing trickle of blood dripping from the side of his mouth.

“Come,” he says to the girl, shortly.

They escape through the window, clambering up the balconies until they are racing across the roof and jumping over the little gap to reach the next building. They finally reach the end of the street and descend, their feet hitting the pavement with a quiet thump. They find a plain-looking car parked just by the curb, and the girl uses the screwdriver she always somehow has tethered to her to push the small, sharp, flat head into the gap between the lock and the car door. She makes him push the lock forward until it pops out of the cavity, and slips inside. She crouches under the dashboard, finding the wires to the ignition switch and touches the wires together to activate the main power circuit, which gets the engine thrumming underneath.

She crawls into the passenger seat and waist for him to slip inside, and he starts driving the car forward until they reach the airport. Their transport is already waiting for them, and they creep inside while the rest of the airport’s clientele start whispering about the poor American ambassador’s death.  

The girl remains quiet through it all. He’s beginning to think she has a habit of holding her tongue after a mission, which would suit him just fine, if her eyes weren’t just as expressive as her words. Even when they in Frankfurt and he finds them a car in which to drive back to Salzburg, she doesn’t say a word, not to make conversation or offer insight or comment on anything.

It worries him, when it shouldn’t.

Worry should not exist for him.

But he’s beginning to think many unknowns do, in fact, exist, when the girl is concerned.

They are forced to halt in Altötting when their petrol runs low.

He buys the girl some potato chips in a convenience store after he pays for the petrol. The old man at the counter is built short and stout with a pot belly and a double chin. He smiles at the Asset, kindly, and returns his change, but it makes something twist in him unpleasantly.

He doesn’t understand why.

The man talks to him in German, and the Asset replies flawlessly, but all it does is make his skin crawl.

It’s like an itch in his neck, burrowing under his skin, and he doubts he’d be rid of unless he took a knife and scraped it out of bone.

This man, some stranger, shouldn’t incite this malfunction in him.

He doesn’t understand what is going on.

His fists clench and unclench.

He seizes the change in his palm and turns around, resolving that the malfunction will disappear when he is as far away from this man as possible.

That’s when he remembers. 

There is a camp.

There are men and women, gaunt and corpse-like, bruises crawling up their arms like some tapestry of their suffering; a strong breeze would pull their flesh apart, but their fate is already much worse, he knows.

There are gates, fences made of sharp wire; some have tried to escape, and they never tried again.

There are shower stalls which aren’t shower stalls; there are women and children who scream and sob and soil themselves in fright.

There is a red flag, with some black symbol painted onto the front, flying over the camp.

The man is there, with darker hair and a softer face.

 _Lalka_ , they call him, the doll.

He is no doll, the Asset remembers.

He rounds on him, and the man’s face flickers with surprise; his mind is so addled that he doesn’t remember him, _the fucking Nazi cunt_.

There’s a pen lying on the counter, and he snatches it, slamming the sharp end of the ballpoint into the soft flesh of his neck. The man chokes, unable to defend himself against the swiftness of the Asset’s violence (even a man unencumbered by age would not have been able to match him), and clutches at his neck where the blood gushes out in torrents, as if someone had dyed a gallon of milk red and just poured it out onto the floor.

The Asset siezes him by the throat with his metal arm, pulls him bodily over the counter, and bares his teeth.

“Burn in hell, Nazi scum,” he hisses, indifferent how the blood leaks onto his hand, trickling down his flesh arm until the sleeve of his shirt is completely sodden red.

When he emerges from the convenience store, his arm is still dripping with blood, his hand still clutching the pen as if it’s his only lifeline. The girl’s face contorts with surprise and alarm when he climbs into the driver’s seat. She bites her lower lip to the point of bleeding until her morbid curiosity gets the better of her.

“What happened?” she asks him, quietly, her fingers twitching as if she wants to wring her hands together. “Were you attacked?”

“No,” he says, shortly.

He doesn’t offer any other explanations, but she stares at him the entire journey, her mouth set in a thin line, as if she is equally worried and terrified in full measure. He keeps his eyes on the road and there is too much war inside him to talk even if he wanted to, and what would he even say to this child? What could she understand of the vicious, disjointed rage that had enveloped him, forced his hand until he opened up that man’s throat? What could she know of those words, that speech pattern, those emotions that belonged to a different man, someone he knew intimately, but could never belong to an Asset?

Conviction and sentiment are absent in an Asset’s protocols.

Assets only know duty.

The handlers drag the girl away as soon as they reach the base, but her eyes don’t leave his, rooting him to the spot, turning his tongue dry and thick and heavy in his mouth. Once she is taken from the room, the Asset breathes a little easier and he turns to the commander, and confesses his sins as mission reports require, his stomach sinking as the commander’s jaw grows more and more taut.

“What happened, Soldat?” the commander asks lowly.

“The Asset… malfunctioned, commander,” he replies, grimly.

His head snaps to the side when the commander backhands him.

“This… this was more than a malfunction,” the commander growls. “You killed a convenience store owner in broad daylight and left him to bleed out on the floor, where a dozen civilians could’ve witnessed the great Winter Soldier in action. You acted a reckless fool and compromised _everything_ HYDRA has ever worked for. So, again, you will tell me what happened.”

The Asset swallows hard. “The Asset malfunctioned, commander,” he repeats, having nothing else to say.

There is no other explanation.

“Hit him,” the commander deadpans.

The Asset muffles a scream when the stun batons strike him in the back, the voltage dialled up until the batons are crackling with electricity. His muscles convulse, and he drops right to the ground, his knees hitting the floor with a brutal snap that is sure to have broken a bone or two.

The commander kneels before him, and the Asset curls into a ball, cringing away slightly.

“Have you become weary of your calling, Soldat? Is that it?”

“No, commander,” he wheezes out.

The commander clucks his tongue.

“Are you certain? After all, you did defy your protocols, exacted justice on an honourable man, and threatened to wreak havoc on everything we have worked on since you were commissioned. Tell me, Soldat, how will I trust you now?”

“Commander-” the Asset begins, but inwardly, something is _raging_ at the idea of that _monster_ being an _honourable_ man.

“No,” the commander interjects, kindly. “You have disappointed me, Soldat. I had been impressed with your execution, but you have fallen short of what I was anticipating. No, you will be punished.” His eyes ascend. “Take him.”

They haul him away, like he’s nothing more than a sack of vegetables. They take him back to his cell, and the girl is curled up on the bed in the one beside his, her arms wrapped around herself, as she watches everything, _him_ , with bloodshot eyes, clutching at her screwdriver.

They beat him bloody, the handlers, until it aches to even squeeze his hand into a fist. They can take all their frustrations out on him; they know he will endure. But just because he heals, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt something fierce in the moment, when they’re pelting him with their sticks until his skin becomes a tapestry of ruptured blood vessels and there is blood matting his hair and eyes and mouth and hands and feet and stomach.

Thankfully, he falls unconscious halfway through, but he is very much awake when they drag him to the chair, that grotesque-looking machine that rubs him clean, into a blank slate that is easy for them to write on, to make him into anything they want him to be, but it _hurts_ ; he thinks it would be better if they killed him, in that moment, rather than slide that needle under his eyelid and scrape through flesh and bone marrow until they can peel away everything they don’t like about or want in him.

He’s a slurring, disoriented mess when they stuff him back in that chamber and close the doors around him.

For some reason, though, the girl’s face comes to him, vivid and defined, just before the ice quickly buries him under.


	2. 1980

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where all the evil stuff starts.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: sexual assault of an adult, dubious consent with a consensual sexual encounter, torture, forced drowning, child abuse, threats of rape/non-consensual sex, explicit sexual content (consensual masturbation), explicit language, threats of murder.
> 
> Sorry not sorry, I refuse to warn for menstruation.
> 
> This satisfies the "denial" square (T1) of the Tony Stark Bingo.

**1980**

_Paris, France_

The Engineer bites down on an apple, watching as the Soldier surveys the hotel room across the little alleyway.

“So,” she drawls. “Why is this one dying?”

The Soldier glowers at her. “We’ve had this conversation before; we don’t ask questions. Assets listen; they do not doubt.”

The Engineer grins around crispy flesh. “But you have _some_ idea, don’t you?” she taunts.

The glower turns into a glare, but finally the Soldier sighs, exasperated.

“I have some theories,” he admits, grudgingly.

“Oh?” the Engineer raises an eyebrow.

“The target’s name is Yahya El Mashad. Do you know who he is?” the Soldier asks, pointedly, like he’s testing her.

The Engineer furrows her brow, looking down at her feet. “He is an Egyptian nuclear scientist, isn’t he? The head of the Iraqi nuclear program.”

The Soldier nods. “Yes. Mossad want him dead.”

The Engineer frowns. “But why?”

The Soldier shrugs (somehow, he is always lax around her; if she didn’t know better, she would think he trusted her). “I imagine they want to sabotage the Iraqi nuclear program,” he says, blithely.

The Engineer pauses. “I suppose that makes sense,” she says, blithely.

“It doesn’t _have_ to make sense,” he says, sternly. “It is our mission.”

The Engineer sighs and looks away. “Is there anything I can do?” she asks, patiently.

“No,” he says, shortly.

The Engineer groans.

The Soldier sighs and beckons her over. “Watch him, then.”

The Engineer rolls her eyes and saunters over to him. She looks into the binoculars that he hands her, propping her elbows onto the windowsill, as she peers into the hotel room in the building opposite to theirs. There’s an older man, pacing around, short and stout with a round face and hair in the final stage of baldness. There’s a girl inside the room with him, golden curls and soft features in a dress that dips low over her chest and comes up short at the hem.

“Who is the woman?” she asks, curiously.

“A prostitute,” the Soldier huffs. “Sent by the Mossad.”

She knows, in theory, what a prostitute is, what a prostitute does (her education on that subject matter is extensive; she thinks she will be commissioned in that manner in the future, once she is of a more pleasing age to targets), but frankly, she doesn’t understand why they exist beyond the financial interest of such a career.

“How do you know?” she demands.

“I was informed,” he says, vaguely.

“You never tell me anything,” she can’t help but complain.

She pushes her luck with him, she knows, but she can’t help it; somehow, she thinks, he needs to be pushed.

“Perhaps, if you ever managed to keep your mouth shut, I would tell you something,” he snaps at her, scowling like a thunder cloud.

“No, you wouldn’t,” she says, knowingly.

The Soldier takes a deep breath, as if that single inhale is all that’s preventing him from turning their decrepit little motel room into a murder scene, even if she knows he’d unequivocally spare her life (whether he knows it or not, whether he remembers her or not, there is something in HYDRA’s great soldier that values her existence).

“You are young,” he says, his voice a little gentler, as if he has to remind himself that she is only ten (she knows her age, logically, but it means nothing to her, except in terms of biology; she has never been allowed to be a child and she doubts she ever will be). “It will still be some time before they tell you these things. And they may never tell you anything, except what is relevant to the mission. You must be prepared.”

Her mouth twists, wryly. “Assets listen; they do not doubt,” she quotes, scuffing the floor with the tip of her shoe.

The Soldier never smiles, but she thinks (or perhaps, she hopes) that he wants to in this moment. “You _can_ listen,” he says, approvingly. “You simply choose not to.” Like a switch, his face contorts, abruptly, into a picture of admonishment. “Defiance will not suit you well,” he warns.

The Engineer shrugs. “I am careful with my defiance,” she points out.

“You are,” the Soldier agrees. “But you will pay a price for your recklessness. We always do,” he says, tonelessly, no venom, no resentment, no anger, just _fact_.

The Engineer takes a deep breath and peers into the binoculars again. The prostitute seems to be having some argument with the target, her hands on her hips, as she spits something at him, and finally storms out of the apartment, leaving the target perplexed and upset and alone in his apartment.

“The target is alone,” she informs the Soldier. “The girl has left.”

“She may still return,” he points out. “It is best that we wait for some time longer before we proceed inside. Even if the Mossad has sent her, no one must know of our involvement.”

“Why?” she asks.

“We are ghosts,” he intones. “And stop asking questions.”

The Engineer’s long hair hides how she rolls her eyes, and she turns her attention back to the window and binoculars. “How much longer?” she asks, impatiently.

“Ten minutes.”

The Engineer barely resists the urge to groan. She taps her foot against the floor in a frustrating rhythm that matches her restlessness perfectly.

“If you can’t control yourself, go and sit in the corner,” he snaps.

“I’m fine,” she says, blinking owlishly at him.

The Soldier sighs. “Have you at least learned in which hotel room the target staying?” he demands.

“Room 15,” she says, promptly.

The Soldier crosses his arms over his broad chest, and her eyes are immediately drawn to the sleek metallic finish of his fingers peeking out of his black tactical combat suit.

“And how do you know that?”

“Yesterday, I managed to get inside,” she explains. “And I made my way up to the second floor. His room is at the end of the hallway, otherwise we wouldn’t be able to see inside, and I left a flowerpot with a pink hydrangea on our balcony, so that I’d know which room ours was. So, Room 15 had to be his.”

The Soldier’s jaw twitches, which she takes to be his approval, and finally, he nods.

“Which is the best way to enter the target’s hotel room?” he asks.

“His room has no balcony that we can jump onto from ours,” she grumbles. “But I could pick the lock on his hotel room door.” She offers.

“Would that alert him to our entry?” the Soldier asks, relentlessly.

“I can make sure he wouldn’t know,” she reassures.

“I hope so.” The Soldier looks sternly at her. “Or there will be punishment, you understand?”

The Engineer stares at him flatly, with all of the gravitas that a ten-year-old girl’s frame could possibly invoke.

“And will you be administering the punishment?” she asks, coldly.

The Soldier’s jaw tightens. “The handlers administer the punishment, under the orders of the commander. _I_ have nothing to do with it. I will give my mission report as I always have,” he warns.

 _I cannot protect you if you miscalculate_ is what he means, and the Engineer shifts on her feet, uneasily – she hates that he makes her so graceless, when she can do the _eka hasta vrksasana_ and the _taraksvasana_ poses for seventeen minutes without falling.

“Come,” he orders. “It is time.”

He fixes his muzzle.

She wonders if it hurts him, if he can’t breathe.

They creep out of the hotel, past a number of patrons that are entirely too busy with their own lives to pay close attention to a grown man accompanied by an adolescent girl. They stride through the entrance of the _Le Méridien_ , through the blind spots of the surveillance cameras which the Soldat had scouted the previous day. It’s busy enough and the cameras are bad enough that no one notices them slip through the indoor emergency staircase, climbing up to the second floor.

The Soldier emerges from the staircase first, followed by the Engineer, who creeps after him, landing beside him when he stops short of the target’s hotel room. He takes a step back, letting her take his place so that she can kneel before the door and start picking the lock with a slim tool that she had tucked in the sleeve of her plain clothes. The lock gives away without much force, the door parting to allow them entrance.

When they slip inside, padding along the foundation so that the target won’t hear them. They find him in the living room, almost passed out on the couch with a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table in front of them. His head lolls over the back the couch, while his eyes, muddled, cast over them.

He slurs something in Arabic that she can’t quite catch, but before the man can even recognise the sheer oddity of two strangers, a young, scruffy man with a metal arm, accompanied by a ten-year-old, gaunt little girl, in his hotel room when his door should have been locked, the Soldier is springing forward, his feet moving at a speed that her only-average sight can’t quite catch.

The Engineer watched, with her heart on the edge of a cliff, as the Soldier, strong and fierce as he is, strikes the man in the head with a metal fist, caving his skull inward with a single blow. It is a brutal, yet elegant process of killing the man, who simply crumples onto the cushions, a slow trickle of blood and cerebrospinal fluid leaking out of his nose and ears.

“Is that it?” she wonders out loud.

“Yes,” the Soldier intones.

The Engineer pauses. “How long must we wait here?” she asks, awkwardly.

The Soldier turns to narrow his eyes at her. “Long enough that it won’t alert anyone as to what we were doing here,” he informs her. “If we leave too soon, and they discover his body, suspicion will fall on us.”

The Engineer nods, accepting the logic, and stands around waiting until the Soldier determines it is safe for them to leave. On their way out, keeping close to the walls, the Engineer fixes the lock, ensuring that no one would think that it had been tampered with. The Soldier surveys her work with a blank face, but when the door locks behind them, the wood and metal untouched despite the Engineer’s disruptions, he nods, satisfied, and pulls her away.

If there are guests in the rooms on the rest of the floor, they thankfully stay quiet, their doors shut off to the reality (and tragedy, as she supposes they will think of it once they find out) of what just went on in a room not more than ten feet from theirs, but it’s good for them.

There are rules, after all: _no witnesses._

The Engineer shakes her head.

Empathy is indefensible, _punishable_ in their line of work.

But it almost seems anticlimactic, even _disrespectful_ , to climb down the emergency staircase, as if there isn’t a dead man lying on his couch with a slight dented spot in his skull much like a smashed watermelon, because of them and their actions, but the Soldier was very clear: Assets listen; they do not doubt.

 _Assets listen; they do not doubt_ , she repeats it to herself, again and again.

She only wishes it would sink in.

It would save her a lot of grief later on.

* * *

**1981**

“You have a new mission,” the commander drawls.

The Engineer and the Soldier are kneeling on the ground in front of him, their heads bowed so that the Engineer is only able to see the polished leather of the commander’s shoes.

The Soldier hesitates beside her.

“What is the mission, commander?” he asks, lowly.

“The mission is not for you, Soldat,” the commander growls.

The Engineer feels the air thicken with tension, and a heavy, hot weight settles in her stomach.

She feels like she could vomit if she even opened her mouth.

The commander steps forward, so that he’s standing right in front of her, so close that she can see how the threading on his shoes differs in colour from the shade of the leather.

She waits with bated breath.

“The girl will complete this mission,” he orders.

She resists the urge to look at the Soldier; if for confirmation or approval, she doesn’t know, but something inside her pulls in his direction. She stamps down on it before it can rear its ugly head, though. If she had given into it, she would have been punished, and obedience is always easier than nursing painful welts on her skin at night.

She swallows hard. “What is the mission, commander?” she asks, repeating the same question as the Soldat.

“Reagan will be at the Washington Hilton Hotel, on March 30. Your mission is to terminate the target.”

The commander kneels, which makes the Engineer flinch. Two of his thick, long fingers find their way under her chin, pushing her head up, none too gently, so that he can hold her gaze, as he holds everything else that belongs to her.

“Understood?” he asks, almost kindly.

The commander is a young man, older than the Soldat, at least physically, but by no more than five or so years, physically attractive, she supposes, with head of curly, dark blond hair and brown eyes, much like her own. The smile on his face is wide, toothy, stretching all the way his muscles will allow, but there’s something _wrong_ about it, when she knows he would crack her skull open and let her brain matter spill out onto the floor if she said something he didn’t particularly like.

It makes her want to crawl into a ball and simultaneously spit in his face just to see what he would do.

But she meets his eyes, nonetheless, her face blank of anything but compliance, nothing that they could use against her later on (although, they will do as they will, as they always do).

“Understood, commander,” she intones, dully.

The commander cups her cheek, running a thumb over her cheekbone in a way that makes her want to scuttle away, as far as she can.

“This will be an important mission for you, girl,” he says, his voice growing cold. “It will be a test of everything you have learnt. If you fail, there may be questions about your usefulness to us, and that, I assure you, will not be pleasant for you. Do you understand?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the Soldier kneeling beside her, his hands propped on his thighs in a rigid fists, so tight that they’ve gone pale with blood loss. A part of her wonders if he dislikes the way the commander is touching her now.

The handlers, the female ones, at least, had warned her of men who would look at her as the commander now looks at her, with greed, with want, with violence, warned her of the sin of letting them do what they want with her.

Her body belongs to HYDRA, after all.

She stares him down.

“Understood, commander.”

* * *

_Washington DC, America_

They check into the Park Central Hotel. The Engineer pretends she’s an overwhelmed little girl who lost her parents but somehow managed to remember in which hotel they had booked a room, and the hotel receptionist is so flustered by the crying child at his counter, that he quickly buys her story and hands a key for the room on the third floor without a second thought.

As she walks away, she smiles to herself.

The Soldat joins her at the staircase, and they climb up together without any words to each other.

It’s almost peaceful in itself.

When they enter the room and finally have a moment to themselves, in privacy, the Soldat turns to her with an unfathomable look.

“I have been instructed to not assist you,” he informs her.

She can’t quite tell if he’s happy about that or not.

“But it is in all of our best interests if I ask you whether you have a plan.”

The Engineer feels the beginning of a flutter settling in her stomach, and attributes it to a vicious blend of anxiety and terror.

“The target will be delivering a luncheon address to the American Federation of Labour and Congress of Industrial Organisations at the Washington Hilton Hotel at 14:00 tomorrow afternoon. There is a 30 feet distance between the hotel and the curb, where his limousine will be waiting for him. There’s a building complex on the other side of T Street NW that we can be waiting for him from, and that way, we should catch him just before he gets into the limousine.”

She looks at him, for approval, for acknowledgement, for _something_.

The Soldier simply nods.

* * *

The next morning, at 14:27, the Engineer and the Soldier are lying in wait above the building opposite the Washington Hilton Hotel, just as the target emerges from the hotel, surrounded by numerous bodyguards in clean, black suits. The sniper rifle is set up in front of the Engineer, and she has it at her height, her finger on the trigger, as she peers into the scope.

Finally, she has a clear view of the target, and she goes to pull the trigger.

A split-second’s hesitation and the barrel dips just the slightest, when she fires.

The bullet flies through the air and instead of getting the target between the eyes, it ricochets off the armoured side of the limousine and hits the target just under his left arm, lodging in his lung instead of his heart.

Then, utter bedlam ensues.

There are five more shots, badly aimed, some from her and some from another shooter in the crowd, one hitting a police officer in the back of the neck, another getting the Press Secretary in the head, and one more striking a Secret Service agent plastered to the target in the abdomen, while the others collide with nothing in particular.

When the Engineer pulls away from the rifle, her hands are visibly shaking. When she turns to the Soldier, he is completely indecipherable, with muzzle on. And without the muzzle, after he removes it to talk, his face is utterly wan and empty of all emotion, sentiment or response, in a way that makes her want to scream and rage and shake him until he spills whatever he mulls over in his thick skull (she wonders if there’s _anything_ in his head, or is he the perfect automaton that the handlers mock him to be).

“We should leave,” he says instead. “There is enough commotion that the law enforcement officers will be interrogating everyone in the vicinity. We have no concealment here any longer.”

The Engineer nods, a heavy, unpleasant weight in her stomach making her want to vomit. But she’s glad for the instruction, nonetheless; she doubts she could’ve come up with anything herself in that moment. She follows him down from the rooftop, all the way until they lumber back into the hotel room and the door closes behind them.

Once they’re safely ensconced, the Engineer sits on top of her single, threadbare mattress, wrapping her arms around her knees as she sits back against the headboard.

The Soldat eyes her from a corner of the room.

“You will be given another opportunity. You will not be decommissioned so easily,” he states, as if attempting to reassure her.

It falls flat, because she knows the commander’s anger; she knows the punishment for failure, and she knows she won’t be spared.

But she appreciates it, nonetheless.

Comfort does not come easily to the Soldat.

* * *

As she had correctly assumed, the handlers seize her the moment they return to the base.

She doesn’t struggle.

Punishment is due for her failure.

The commander visits her before they start.

He paces in front of her, slowly, while she fixates on his shoes, the leather glinting in the dim light in her cell. She’s kneeling on the floor again, her hands splayed across her thighs, while her head is bowed forward.

Finally, he stops and kneels in front of her, clucking his tongue. His hand slides into her hair.

“You have disappointed me, girl,” he says, mournfully.

“Yes, commander,” she intones.

There isn’t much else for her to say in response.

The commander will always do as he wills.

“I had such hopes for you as well,” he murmurs. “I believed you would be as great as the Soldat. I believed that since you had spent so much time with him, you would have taken in his skill and knowledge. But I must have been too ambitious.”

“Yes, commander.”

“Now, what shall we do with you now, girl?”

The Engineer swallows hard. “As you will, commander.”

His thumb strokes over her cheekbone. Her skin crawls.

“Now, you are too useful to be decommissioned, fortunately. You are skilled; I should not diminish that. The Soldat spoke of your prowess with the Russian idiots in 1979. Perhaps it was my fault; I should not have expected so much of you, so early.”

For a brief moment, the Engineer allows herself to hope.

Then, everything inside her deflates.

“Of course, if I spare you, then it would only encourage further disobedience, greater incompetence, and in our line of work, with what we do for the world, for our race, incompetence cannot be allowed. Do you understand, girl?”

“Yes, commander.”

“Good girl,” he says, kindly, and slides to his feet, gracefully.

Numerous feet surround her.

“Deal with her.”

When the blows rain down on her, when her skin splits open and her blood runs onto the floor and agony spirals across her entire body, she bites back her screams.

They’ll punish her for that as well; after all, excessive physical response is unauthorised.

* * *

Physical punishment is inevitable. The commander has a few standard protocols for discipline. She bears it well, with a stoic face and open eyes (because shutting off to what is happening to her is not conducive to proper understanding).

But when they tie her hands behind her back and drag her to a trough of water by her hair, she starts to struggle.

She doesn’t scream; they wouldn’t appreciate it, nor would they stop, if she did, and she’s not the type anyway.

They keep her down, her head in the water. She can’t push herself out; she can’t breathe, her lungs dragging like a rasping chain on gravel, and it _burns_. It hurts, and all of her training is useless, because she is deserving of this.

When they pull her out, because they want her alive and compliant, not dead and useless, the bile rises in her throat, sour and bitter, along with the copper taste of blood, and she spits it out onto the stone floor.

They make her lick it up like a dog; one of the handlers pins her down with a foot on her throat.

Then, they shove her down into the trough all over again.

* * *

She’s barely aware of herself when they leave her cell.

They lay her out on her threadbare mattress, her head lolling out over the side. She’s still wet, drenched right down to her toes, her hair matted with blood, her cheek hot and swelling, while all of her muscles ache something fierce. She knew the next morning, her skin would be a multitude of hues, dark purple splotches, while the edges yellowed. There were cuts that would be lined a dark red, almost brown, where their knives had cut her open.

Even the rise and fall of her chest sent ripples of pain hurtling through her body, a dull, throbbing ache in her legs and arms, bones surely have fractured, while the open wounds on her stomach, back and thighs gaped and seared.

When she turns her head to look through the bars, the Soldat is staring at her from the floor of his own cell.

She opens her mouth to say something, but then she remembers how they’d held her down by the throat, fingers leaving pale mauve marks on her skin, and how much it would hurt to even speak, her larynx swollen and spasming.

The Soldier cocks his head at her. “Who are you?”

 _Oh,_ that hurts.

She should’ve seen it coming; it’s been so long since the Soldier was serviced, and he never seems to be able to avoid that chair, no matter how much he hates it (she knows he hates it; she can see it in his eyes; she’s heard his screams and it makes her want to cry).

But now, she feels more alone than she ever has been.

* * *

“Look at me,” the commander orders.

The Engineer raises her head.

It has been six months since her failure to complete her mission in Washington DC and her subsequent punishment, and she’s healed up well, according to the physicians in the base. There are scars where there used to be unblemished skin, and it still hurts to turn on her ankle sometimes, but she endures.

She must endure.

“I will give you an opportunity that no one receives,” he tells her, sternly. “A second chance, after your miserable failure in Washington DC. You will be given another mission, but should you fail this one as well, I will no longer show you any forgiveness. You will be decommissioned. Do you understand?”

The Engineer nods.

The commander’s mouth thins and pain bursts across her cheek when he backhands her, sending her head flying to the side. She drops her head immediately. He grabs her by the jaw, then, his fingers digging into soft skin, his grip tight enough that her bones start to grind against each other, making her grit her teeth.

“You have a tongue, girl,” he threatens. “I suggest you use it. Now, do you understand?”

The Engineer swallows hard. “Yes, commander.”

The commander smiles, kindly, as if moments ago, he hadn’t hit her hard enough to make her see stars. “Good. Now, your next mission is to terminate Anwar Sadat. Do you know who he is?”

The Engineer pauses. “He is currently the Prime Minister of Egypt, commander,” she answers, hesitantly, not because she didn’t immediately know the answer, but because she was unsure of how her response would be received.

The commander’s lips twitch. “Yes, you are a smart one, aren’t you?” he nods. “Good. Yes. He is the current Prime Minister of Egypt. He has become… well, shall we say _problematic_?”

The Engineer knows some of the target’s history: regained Sinai Peninsula, responsible for the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty, first Muslim Nobel laureate. She wonders which one of the target’s actions has angered HYDRA enough to result in his termination.

She supposes it doesn’t really matter.

“On October 6, there is to be a victory parade in Cairo, commemorating the eighth anniversary of Egypt’s crossing of the Suez Canal. An assassination squad has plans to carry out the target’s termination at the same time, but it would be better if we carried it out first.”

The commander phrases it like the decision is up to her, but the Engineer is aware of the consequences of her failure now.

He will not be lenient with her again.

The Engineer nods, stiffly. “It will be done, commander.”

The commander sighs. “I certainly hope so, girl. I assure you, you won’t like the alternative should you fail once more.”

* * *

_Cairo, Egypt_

“You have failed once before,” the Soldat says, matter-of-factly.

The Engineer turns to him; her lungs constrict at the somewhat indifferent look in his eyes. He remembers her, if only a little, who she is, what her vocation is for HYDRA, but not much more than that. There is only one silver lining and that is the more time the Soldat goes without being put in the chair, the memories come back to him, slowly, almost like a length of twine he can’t seem to shake loose.

In any case, it works to her benefit.

The Soldat is silent, unobtrusive, the veritable ghost the handlers call him, but there is something akin to comfort in his way.

“I have,” she replies, carefully, hesitant in the way the words roll off her tongue.

The Soldat cocks his head, surveying her. “They have not decommissioned you.”

He phrases it more like a statement, rather than a question.

“No, they have not.”

“They’ve given you a second chance.”

“Yes.”

“The commander will not be forgiving again.”

“No, he will not.”

The Soldier blinks. “It is good you understand,” he murmurs and looks over the edge of the window.

Jets swoop above them, a flurry of dust and leaves floating in the air briefly before falling back onto the ground, while army soldiers and troop trucks towing artillery parade through the street just below them.

“There,” the Soldat says, suddenly.

The Engineer snaps her eyes to where he’s pointing: a troop truck is rolling across the road.

“He has the driver at gunpoint,” the Soldat explains. “If anything, I’d think that was the assassination squad.”

The Engineer runs a hand across the barrel of the sniper rifle already set up in their hotel room.

“If the assassination squad is to take the blame for the termination, then I should make it messy, shouldn’t I?” she asks, uncertainly.

The Soldat stills for a moment. “Yes,” he answers, roughly, thumbing the ridges in his muzzle. “We are HYDRA’s shadows, not their mascots. Suspicion should not fall onto HYDRA. If you are to make it look like this army officer is the cause of the target’s death, I suggest you make it a messy death. I trust you remember how to do that?”

The Engineer swallows hard, but nods ultimately. She runs a hand across the barrel of the sniper rifle propped up on the edge of the rooftop once more, before taking aim.

The troop truck that the Soldat had spotted rolls up in front of the tribune, and Islambouli steps out, accompanied by his hired guns. They approach the dais, and the target rises to his feet to receive his salute.

She takes her shot.

She aims for his chest cavity, just under the target’s left lung, and when the bullet strikes, the target convulses with a spray of red, at the exact same time that Islambouli launches three hand grenades at the target. One lands just short of the dais and explodes in a shower of dust and concrete and fire. The accompanying assassins rise from the truck, indiscriminately firing their AK-47’s into the stands until their ammunition runs out.

The Soldat tugs on her arm, and she looks down at where his large, broad palm is wrapped around her forearm, not too tight, but enough that she can feel the warmth of his skin and his resolve to not let her go.

She wonders if he thinks she’ll jump, or worse, run away.

He’d be forced to hunt her down, after all.

“We must leave,” he intones.

He looks down.

The Engineer looks down to where he’s staring.

Her hands are shaking.

“Oh,” she says, lamely.

It takes quite a bit of willpower, but she forces her hands to stay still.

When she looks up, the Soldat’s eyes are soft.

The Engineer looks away, ashamed and embarrassed, but nonetheless lets him drag her away from the rooftop.

She can still hear screams coming from the streets below.

There’s still red in her eyes.

* * *

She and the Soldat kneel in front of the commander.

“The target was airlifted to a military hospital,” the commander explains. “Eleven doctors operated on him. Two hours after he was taken to the hospital, he was pronounced dead, attributed to violent nervous shock and internal bleeding in the chest cavity, where the left lung and major blood vessels below it were torn, due to your beautiful handiwork, of course, girl.”

The Engineer swallows hard and maintains her gaze on the linoleum floor.

The commander clucks his tongue. His warm hand wraps around her soft throat.

She compares his touch to the Soldat’s and wonders why the commander’s hands on her make her want to set herself on fire, while the Soldat makes something constrict in her lungs and the edge of her ribs; she’s never quite content but never quite fearful either.

Compared to the rest of them, he has only ever been gentle and mild and even indulgent with her; he doesn’t tense like a tightened bow when he’s with her, not like how he does with the others; he’s always lax with her.

She knows he could’ve easy split her skull open any time that he wanted to, the handlers be damned.

“You should take pride in your work, girl,” the commander admonishes. He turns to the Soldat. “Isn’t that right, Soldat?”

“Yes, commander,” the Soldat replies, tonelessly.

The commander tilts her head up, so that she can see his beautiful, cruel face.

“An insurrection occurred in Asyut at the exact time of your mission. Rebels took control of the city for a few days, and sixty-eight policemen and soldiers were killed in the fighting. A great many more civilians as well. Sadat will be succeeded by Hosni Mubarak, who will lead Egypt into… well, let’s just say they’ll be in a place where we want them to be.”

He smiles, so kindly that she would think he visits sick children in hospital and reads stories to them.

“So, you see, girl, you and your work are a gift to this world.”

He runs the pads of his fingers down the curve of her cheek.

The Engineer bites her tongue until she bleeds.

She doesn’t feel like a gift.

And she has the vicious urge to pull his lungs out by his throat.

* * *

**1982**

_London, England_

“So, our mission is to… _miss_?” she clarifies.

The Soldat sighs, exasperated. “For the fiftieth time, yes,” he says, crossly.

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” she complains. “Aren’t we supposed to… well, kill people?”

The Soldat raises an eyebrow. “Sometimes, it’s not so simple,” he says, sternly.

“So, what’s so complicated about _attempting_ to assassinate an Israeli diplomat?” she asks, belligerently.

The Soldat exhales. He sits beside him, and for a moment, she marvels at the mere action, because he’s never been so patient with her before.

“There are three men who will approach the target before he gets into his car, after a banquet at the Dorchester Hotel. I will shoot him in the head, just low enough that it won’t kill him, but it will put him in a coma, if he undergoes brain surgery in time, of course. The attempted assassination will be blamed on the Palestinian Liberation Organisation, which will then provoke the Israeli defence forces to invade southern Lebanon.”

“So, it’ll start a war?” she guesses.

“Yes.”

 _That sounds like us_ , she wants to say, but somehow manages to hold her tongue, not because she fears what he’ll do if she speaks her mind, but the fewer people that know the dangerous turns her mind takes, the better.

The Soldat slips off the Kalashnikov strapped to his back, checking the piston, before raising the gun, the barrel aiming down where the target saunters out of the hotel, towards his car.

For a moment, she considers it, and then decides to take the plunge

“May I?” she holds her hand out for his rifle.

The Soldat raises an eyebrow. “Are you certain?” he asks, a little unsure.

She wonders if he considers her weak, after her hesitation in Washington DC and her discomfort in Cairo, or whether he thinks her incompetent.

She narrows her eyes.

She shrugs. “I’ve never used an assault rifle in the field. Don’t you think it’s about time I got a chance to use one?” she asks, slyly.

The Soldat looks down at her, carefully, and hands her the rifle after a moment’s trepidation.

Perhaps, he was weighed down by the undisguised want in her eyes.

She doubts it.

She’s heard his spiel before.

Want has no place in HYDRA.

They are not creatures of want, only creatures of duty.

“Only if you can make the shot,” he warns.

“I can make it,” she says, confidently.

The Soldat narrows his eyes, but allows her to approach the edge of the roof. She hefts the rifle over the edge and peers into the scope.

As the Soldat predicted, three men approach the target, just as he slides the key into the lock on his door. The Engineer takes her shot and pulls the trigger, the bullet swerving through the air and driving into the base of the target’s skull.

The target collapses to the ground and the Engineer pulls away from the edge of the rooftop.

“And you thought I couldn’t make the shot?” she says, derisively.

The Soldat snatches the rifle from her. He doesn’t quite smile, but there’s a certain glint of humour to his pale blue eyes.

“Perhaps I should outsource our missions to you from now on?”

The Engineer sniffs and turns away, helping him pack away the rifle. “Only if you’re prepared to pay me.”

Frankly, it’s a little morbid how easy it to banter with him, the unconquerable Winter Soldier, while their target bleeds out on the pavement in the street below them.

But somehow, it works for them.

It even feels right.

Her wrist burns where there’s a thick, black band of leather enveloping the strip of skin.

She doesn’t look.

She’s never even touched it.

Decommissioning would be a kinder fate than what they would do to her for _that_ malfunction.

* * *

On 6 June 1982, Israeli Defence Forces invade southern Lebanon, eventually surrounding the Palestine Liberation Organisation operating there and elements of the Syrian army.

The Israeli Prime Minister blames the Palestine Liberation Organisation for the attempted assassination of Shlomo Argov, their target.

Everything proceeded just as the Soldat predicted.

They have succeeded in their mission.

* * *

**1983**

_Beirut, Lebanon_

“Are you sure you know how to do this?” the Soldat demands, glowering down at her from under thick eyebrows.

The Engineer raises an eyebrow herself. “Have I _ever_ disappointed you?” she demands in return.

The Soldat scowls and looks away, checking for unwanted guests, while the Engineer kneels in front of the explosives, packing them together.

“We don’t have much time,” he advises, tersely.

“I am aware,” she returns, just as primly. “But we won’t be able to complete the mission if this is not done, so I suggest you stop whinging.”

“Just… finish up.”

“I’ll try my best, but there’s around two-thousand pounds of this stuff here. It’s not that easy, even for me,” the Engineer murmurs. She looks up. “What’s our timeframe like?”

Going on nine years of missions has left her with a casual sort of vernacular around him, one that she wouldn’t dare use in front of her handlers or HYDRA forbid, the commander; but, with him, she can be as brave as a tiger in a rage.

“I have the van,” the Soldat tells her. “Once you’re done, I want to do last-minute reconnaissance, scope out the entrances and exits. Then, we’ll pack the explosives inside the van and drive it right into the embassy compound, park it under the portico at the very front of the building, and then leave… if you can make sure we have enough time to get out first.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the Engineer reassures. “But how do we get inside the compound in the first place? Surely, they have security?”

“They do,” the Soldat says, blankly.

The Engineer waits.

She receives nothing in return.

“And?” she pushes. “How do we get inside?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, vaguely.

“Well, I’m already worrying, so again, how do we get inside?”

“I’ve been given identity documents,” the Soldat explains, coldly. “I want you to hide when we approach the entrance, and the guard stationed at the entrance. My presence will not be so odd, but I’m not going to sit there and explain why there’s a thirteen-year-old girl in the seat beside me.”

The Engineer ignores the ‘thirteen-year-old girl’ comment. “It’s an embassy. They’ll have cameras,” she reminds him.

The Soldat narrows his eyes. “Well, that’s why I have you, isn’t it?” he points out.

The Engineer crosses her arms over her chest. “Oh?”

“If you can make two-thousand pounds worth of explosives, surely you can do something about their surveillance systems,” the Soldat says, pleasantly.

The Engineer huffs. She knows what he’s doing. He’s playing on her pride; he knows she wouldn’t dare to admit she wasn’t smart enough or skilled enough to do something, especially where technology is concerned.

“I’ll need time for that,” she warns. “I’ll need access to their systems.”

“That’s why I suggested last-minute reconnaissance. I’d like to know our exit plan beforehand as well. I’m not standing there with a truck that’s about to explode, looking for a getaway,” the Soldat says, gruffly, looking away.

“We’ll have enough time,” she reassures.

“I know, you’ve said that already.”

“There’s no reason to get snippy with me,” she says, sharply.

“I’m _not_.”

“You _are_ ,” she says, sternly.

“You’re hearing things.” He turns his head.

The truth hits her like a blow to the stomach.

In retrospect, she should’ve known better.

HYDRA has never given much regard to non-combatants, and certainly not enough to provide identity documents so as to protect them from collateral damage.

She narrows her eyes. “You weren’t given identity documents, were you?” she asks, knowingly.

“No,” he says, simply.

“Why didn’t you just tell me we’d have to… terminate the guard?” she asks, helplessly.

The Soldat looks down at her, almost pitying. “It bothers you,” he murmurs. “You’re young, and your experience in this is still limited. One day, you will understand.”

“Understand _what_? You always say that!” she hisses out.

“We are ghosts, falsehoods,” he says, simply. “We exist, but we don’t exist. Do you understand?”

The Engineer licks her lips. “Witnesses aren’t conducive to not existing,” she murmurs.

The Soldat nods sharply.

“So, we have to kill them,” she says, heavily. She looks at him. “They’re only doing their jobs. Do you even care?” she wonders, helplessly.

She doesn’t understand why this matters so much to her.

It shouldn’t. She knows this.

It shouldn’t matter.

The Soldat cocks his head. “It is the mission.”

“And that matters most of all?” she whispers.

“It must,” he says, almost kindly, all the lines in his face softening, as if he’d put his hand on her shoulder and squeeze if he could, if he understood what the gesture meant, if only to give her comfort.

“What if I can’t do it? What if I never learn to be… like you?” she swallows hard.

The Soldat sighs. “You will. You will have to. HYDRA…” he hesitates. “HYDRA does not tolerate weakness.”

“Will you help me?”

The Soldat looks down at her.

She wonders what he thinks of her. She wonders if he thinks her delicate, lacking, soft.

“I will help you,” he reassures.

* * *

Once they slide into the delivery van packed with enough C4 to disintegrate half the compound, the Engineer props a device on her lap that she had mangled together out of stray, cannibalised electronics in their cheap hotel room that will remotely shut down the embassy’s systems once she activates it, much to the Soldat’s surprise.

She doesn’t know how he still doubts her after all these years. After all, she’s the one who’s been performing the maintenance on his arm since she was four.

Doubt would’ve served him better before he allowed her to put her hands wrist deep into the metal appendage anchored to most of his ribcage.

When they’re rolling down the _Minet El Hosn_ , the Soldat urges her to get down and hide under the seat. Thankfully, she’s small enough and flexible enough that she’s able to curl into a ball around the device and when they turn into the compound, and she feels the van trundle to a stop, she takes a deep breath and activates the device. The device hums loudly as it does its work, eating through the communications and surveillance and security systems until they’re completely left blind, at least, until the Engineer deigns to pull them out of the fire by disabling her device.

By then, of course, it will be too late.

 _It’s better like this_ , she reminds herself. _We are ghosts_.

She counts the seconds until she hears a dull thump, and that’s when she knows that when the embassy security are no longer an obstacle.

She takes short, deep breaths, as the car starts to roll once more. The Soldat doesn’t say a word to her, as he drives into the embassy compound. There must be people milling around. When they did their earlier reconnaissance, it was a wide open space leading up to the large tower, and she finds it hard to believe that such an area would remain empty for stretches of time.

Alas, no one stops them.

No one thinks to question, in the middle of their systems going dead, why and how a delivery truck managed to sneak into an American embassy compound.

She wonders if people are stupid, or is this just how good they are at what they do.

Both are valid answers, she decides.

She waits until the car stops before peeking out from under the seat. “Can I get out now?” she asks, quietly.

The Soldat looks down at her. She’s always found his blue-grey eyes clear and steady, like a needle point.

“Is the timer ready?” he asks her.

She nods, stoically.

“Then, you can get out now,” he advises.

She climbs out of the seat, leaning back against the seat. For some strange reason, she can feel her heart beating like a racehorse under her skin, and she doesn’t understand why. Thankfully, and strangely, the Soldat doesn’t question her delay, doesn’t demand anything more from her. In fact, he sits with her in the silence. He doesn’t have to say anything; his presence beside her is enough.

“Shall we go now?” he asks, quietly.

The Engineer nods, swiftly. “Let me just… make sure the timer is on,” she says, roughly.

She crawls into the back, and checks the timer planted to the corner of the van. The letters glow an insipid, threatening red in the darkness, and something loosens inside her.

They still have plenty of time.

She scampers back into the front and does a very brave thing. She shakes his shoulder, even though she knows he already knew she was standing right behind him.

He turns to face her.

He’s as unfathomable as ever.

“We can go now,” she says, solemnly.

The Soldat nods and they jump out of the truck.

The compound is suspiciously silent, and once more, the Engineer wonders whether they only succeed in all of their missions because everyone else lacks intelligence, or they’re just so good at what they do. 

In the end, it turns out to be nothing to be worried about. They ascend the fences with ease and jump down on the other side.

She doesn’t comment on how he lands harshly, crashing down like a sack of bricks, exactly opposite to the way he taught her to land when doing such a jump.

His objective is the mission after all, and as long as his functionality is unimpaired, he would push himself to any and all lengths to complete the mission.

It’s a terrible thing for her to consider, but she doesn’t know if she’s capable of such sacrifice, or resignation, she supposes.

They sneak out into the streets and stealing a stray car parked against the curb, driving back to their motel room, and just because she can, because she knows the Soldat will let her, she sticks her head out of the window and closes her eyes and lets the wind blow through her hair.

* * *

That night, she pulls back the covers of her small single bed and pads across the room to where the Soldat is keeping watch, like an ever-present guardian, beside the window, his back pressed against the wall, his eyes open and vigilant.

“What’s wrong?” he asks her, his voice coming out like a chain smoker’s rasp, rough from disuse.

There’s an unfortunate pang in her chest.

The Soldat doesn’t talk as much as he could. Of course, neither does she, and when they do, it’s only with each other.

It should make her feel special, like she’s valuable to him, but it just makes something unpleasant curdle in her bones.

She knows every time either of them opens their mouth, they risk HYDRA cutting out their tongues.

It would be their right, after all. They are only assets, and assets only serve. The Engineer understands that. She may be belligerent sometimes, of course, but she knows her place. The Soldat has taught her well.

She is a good asset.

But it isn’t fair.

He deserves better.

They both do.

She swallows hard.

“I am bleeding,” she explains, plainly.

The Soldat meets her eyes, calmly. “Yes, I know.”

The Engineer frowns. “How do you know?”

The Soldat shrugs. “There is blood on your sheets.”

“Oh,” she says, lamely. She twists her hands together. “I need supplies. The handlers, they’ve told me what happens, what I need to do when I start menstruating. There are things that I need.”

The Soldat nods. “Give me a list, and I’ll go collect them for you.”

The Engineer bites her lip, but tells him nonetheless, recollecting what the handlers had told her.

He leaves, promptly, but returns within the hour, carrying a single plastic bag full of supplies in one hand. He shuts the door and hands her the bag, which she takes and holds close to her chest. She fishes inside, pulling out a small packet of sanitary napkins, a hot water bottle and painkillers.

“You can take one with water,” he explains, gesturing to the strip of painkillers. “Fill up the water bottle and sleep on your side, so you can press it up against your stomach.” 

The Engineer nods and crawls back to bed, pulling the blood-stained sheets off the mattress, which is soaked through. She struggles slightly with the weight, until the Soldat takes pity on her and flips the mattress, so that the pristine side is the one she slips on. She fixes herself up, making sure that she’s clean before lying down on the bed, curling into a ball around the hot water bottle, the heat seeping through her thin clothing and into her skin.

She wakes up some time during the night, bleary-eyed and shaking from the pain lower in her abdomen, bile rising up in her throat.

There are painkillers and a tall glass of water sitting on the bedside table.

* * *

**1986**

_Washington DC, America_

The Engineer and the Soldat are returning from their mission to sabotage the NASA space shuttle _Challenger_ flight, which breaks apart mid-air seventy-three seconds and kills all seven crew members, when the Engineer works her magic on the O-ring seals in the solid rocket booster. The O-ring seals fail, causing a breach in the solid rocket booster, which ruptures the external fuel tank, allowing aerodynamic forces to break up the orbiter.

The Soldat doesn’t quite understand what she’s talking about when she explains herself, but there’s a tilt to his mouth when he listens which makes her think that he’s content listening to her talk.

When they return to the base after the gruelling six-week mission, they are informed that the commander would like to see them.

The Engineer is no longer the timid little child that once cowered in front of the commander. Oh, she still knows what he’s capable of, what he can, rightfully and wrongfully, do to her, but she’s learnt the terrible skill of minding her mouth just enough that they won’t kill her.

She has new scars at their hands that she didn’t before, but the tapestry on her body suits her well.

It makes her stronger, smarter.

The Engineer and the Soldat kneel in front of the commander.

“This may be your most important mission yet,” the commander intones.

Curiosity rings through her like a bell.

The commander hands the Soldier a file, which he promptly passes to her.

Between the two of them, she is better at mission strategy.

Inside the file is a photo of a very beautiful woman with dark brown hair, greying near the hairline, with dark eyes and a stern, uncompromising expression.

The Engineer looks up. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Margaret Carter.”

The commander’s mouth twists with disgust.

Whoever this woman is, the commander despises her.

“She is the director of SHIELD. Do you know what SHIELD is, girl?”

“The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, an extra-governmental military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency. Primarily American, but they seem to conduct operations worldwide.”

“Yes,” the commander drawls. “SHIELD has their finger in every pie. Do you understand what your mission is, girl?”

“I presume it is to terminate the target, Commander,” she says, quietly.

“Correct.” The commander crouches down in front of her. “Sometimes,” he murmurs, brushing a thick lock of hair away from her face, which makes her skin crawl. “I forget how smart you are, girl. You’re not an average teenager, are you?” he smiles like his joke is funny enough to make even her laugh.

“No, commander,” she says, flatly.

The commander jumps back to his feet and turns her attention onto the Soldat beside her. “Aren’t you proud, Soldat?” he asks. “Your protégé could give you a run for your money nowadays.”

“I am proud that I have served my superiors, commander,” the Soldat intones. “I hope that she will be a credit to you.”

The commander smiles. “A very diplomatic reply, Soldat.” He looks at the two of them on the ground before him. “This will not be an easy mission,” he warns. “Margaret Carter is not one to be underestimated. She has survived every attempt we’ve made against her in forty years. Like a very determined cockroach.” His lip curls. “We’ll see if the two of you, with all of your skill and experience, are up to the mark, shall we?”

The way he says it, all pleasant, would make anyone think he was genuinely concerned about how they would fare on this mission, but she knows better.

She knows the commander well enough to know that he won’t hesitate to put a bullet in their heads if the circumstances required it.

“I wish you both the very best of luck. Now, get out of my sight.”

The commander turns his back on them, and the Soldat motions for her to rise to her feet, as they leave the room. They don’t often get free reign of their movements in the base, but their handlers and the command of the base have enough faith in their loyalty and fear and skill that it’s better for them to leave her and the Soldat to their own devices as they prepare for a mission.

After all, why would there be a need to distrust them?

They serve at the pleasure of HYDRA.

There is nothing else for them, no great calling or vacation, than obeying the HYDRA command.

The Engineer is content.

At least, she thinks she is.

* * *

“I had a question,” she declares, once they’re in the car, driving to the capital. “About the commander.”

“What is it?” he asks, a little short.

“He…” the Engineer hesitates. “He seems to focus on me more now.”

“He does,” the Soldat agrees, promptly.

“That’s not a good thing, is it?” she guesses. “He’s not… he’s not interested in me as just an Asset, is he?”

The silence in the car grows thick, ripe with meaning.

“Soldat?” she says, worriedly.

“You should be careful,” he says, simply, his eyes focused on the road in front of him. “If the commander wants you for anything, it is not in your best interests.”

“What should I do?” she asks, helplessly.

“There is nothing that you can do,” the Soldat tells her, pityingly. “They have all the power with us.”

“It’s not fair,” she snaps, her eyelashes wet.

“It isn’t,” he agrees, very easily.

She turns to him, her pulse a heavy thud, her mouth full of dirt, as the dread lies like stone in her stomach.

“If I took certain measures to protect myself, what would you do?” she asks, carefully, with the taste of iron in her mouth.

The Soldat stills and his grip around the steering wheel turns so tight, his knuckles bloodless, that she’s surprised he doesn’t snap the wheel in two.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, coldly.

The Engineer scoffs. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, derisively.

“You know I am required to report any non-compliance to the commander,” he warns. “Are you so much of an idiot that you’re willing to get yourself killed?”

“ _Will_ you report my non-compliance?” she challenges.

The moment stretches out like piano wire, as she waits for his reply, which could easily herald the end of her in more than one way with a single word.

The Soldat clenches his jaw. “No,” he finally says, heavily. “If you are smart with your actions, I will not report any non-compliance.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?” he asks, wearily. “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. The commander… there is something he wants from you, yes, and I think you know what that is. He can take it from you if he likes. It is what they like that matters, not what we want. But… you are good at what we do. You have learnt well. You have the means to protect yourself. Do whatever needs to be done. We belong to HYDRA and if your function is compromised by anything anyone does, including the commander, you must do whatever it takes to maintain structural integrity. He is our commander, yes. But he is not HYDRA, and we serve only HYDRA.”

She is not a machine. Neither is he, but that is an argument for another day.

For now, the Engineer nods and turns her attention back to the road stretching out in front of them, feeling very much like a butterfly tacked to a display case.

“Thank you,” she says, after a minute, staring at the horizon lines in the distance.

“Don’t thank me,” he scoffs. “I haven’t done anything for you yet.”

 _You protect me. That is enough_.

* * *

The car rolls across the gaslight road, parking in front of small-town, suburban motel on the edge of the town in which their target lives. The girl slips out of the car, as the Soldat strides towards the reception, making her way to the vending machine on the ground floor. She gazes at the row upon row of snack foods behind the thin glass veneer.

She thinks she would like a bottle of Coke and some peanut butter cups.

She grapples for the metal pick strapped to her side, sliding the sharp end through the coin slot, until she feels the gears give away under her ministration, pressing the buttons for her choice in food quickly. With a shrill beep, the vending machine accepts her ruse and rustles with a little grunt when the bottle of Coke and candy fall into the delivery slot.

As a slight afterthought, she also acquires a pack of Doritos and a bottle of cool water for the Soldat (hydration is a parameter they can both obey with glee).

He should have nice things too.

When the Soldat emerges from the reception, he eyes the spoils in her arms with no small amount of distaste.

“That will make you sick,” he warns. “The nutrition that we are accustomed to leaves our bodies sensitive and susceptible. Your body will not react well to what’s inside _that_.”

The Engineer’s lip curls. “I think I’ll be fine,” she says, confidently.

Hours later, after thoroughly demolishing through the Coke, Doritos and candy, which the Soldat absolutely refuses to touch no matter how much she tries to cajole him into taking something, she’s curled around the toilet in the bathroom of their hotel room, retching up the contents of her stomach, including all the digested food and probably half of her insides along with it.

“I told you so,” the Soldat comments from inside, as he thumbs through a newspaper he collected from the reception.

The Engineer moans, waving her hand at him to keep him silent. “How did you know?” she mutters into the porcelain lid.

The Soldat chuckles.

It makes her jolt, because in her sixteen years, she doesn’t thinks she’s heard him laugh once.

Then again, she doesn’t laugh either.

“You think I haven’t done this before?” he calls out.

“You could’ve warned me,” she complains.

“I did. You _chose_ not to listen to me, remember?”

“You’re being cruel.”

“ _You_ are acting like a child. The unease will pass,” the Soldat reassures.

The Engineer mutters something under her breath and finally lifts herself off the bathroom floor, once the churning in her stomach abates. She flushes the toilet, shoving the lid down, and sinks down on top.

“The target lives at 745 Honeysuckle Lane, Redmond, Washington DC,” she mutters. “She was married to Daniel Sousa, now deceased. She has three children: two daughters and a son. She leaves the house at exactly 7:45am and returns home at 6:15pm. She has all her meals, except for dinner, within SHIELD headquarters. I am assuming that, short of infiltrating SHIELD headquarters, which I admit would be quite an interesting and exhilarating experience, we will be carrying out this mission at her home. Am I correct?”

“You are, as always, correct,” the Soldat replies, blithely.

The Engineer pauses, staring down at her bare feet. “Is she… is she really that good?” she wonders out loud.

The Soldat sighs, heavily. “I wouldn’t know,” he says, slowly. “But the commander seems to think that she will be a difficult target to terminate. I am inclined to believe in his judgment of the situation.”

The Engineer has a few opinions about the commander’s judgment, but she somehow manages to keep them to herself. Instead, she slides to her feet and stumbles back into the motel room, seating herself primly on the edge of her mattress.

“So, how do you suggest we approach the mission?”

Before he can answer her, her stomach roils, and the Engineer makes a miserable little noise before scampering towards the bathroom, diving down towards the toilet, just in time, as she starts vomiting all over again.

She hears the Soldat sigh and the sound of movement behind her, and much to her surprise, the Soldat soon kneels beside her, holding out a damp washcloth, before he presses it against her sweat-damp, flushed face.

The Soldat eyes her, carefully, once he pulls away the washcloth. “You’re lucky you’re carrying this mission out with me,” he points out. “If you had pulled your junk food jaunt with anyone else, they would’ve taken your head, or something equally unpleasant.”

The Engineer crosses her arms over her chest and returns his stance belligerently. “But I’m not,” she points out.

The Soldat narrows his eyes, but she matches him, eye for eye, breath for breath, and finally he slackens first.

“Just… come,” he grumbles. “It’s time for us to leave.”

“Shouldn’t we do reconnaissance?” she demands, following him to the door.

“Where do you think we’re going?”

“Don’t tell me we’re just going to stalk her from a car on the opposite side of the road.”

The Soldat rounds on her. “Do you have a better idea?” he asks, pointedly.

“Well, no,” she admits, grudgingly.

“Then, put up or shut up.” The Soldat’s accent thickens with a very familiar twang that the Engineer recognises from New York, before smoothening out into the familiar newscaster accent.

It gives the Engineer cause to pause.

“Since when do you talk like that?” she asks, suspiciously.

The Soldat’s brow furrows. “I don’t know,” he says, slowly.

The Engineer’s fingers itch at her sides as if she should be touching him. “Should I be concerned?” she asks, worriedly.

The Soldat’s face contorts with something so brutally unsure that the urge to touch him grows stronger.

“I… don’t know.”

For a brief moment, the Engineer gives into the urge and places her hand on the Soldat’s arm, on top of his tactical armour. The Soldat looks down at the picture, the contrast of her pale, olive-toned hand against the shadow of his armour, but he’s still as unfathomable as ever.

“We’ll figure it out,” she reassures, lowly.

The Soldat nods stiffly, and turns back to the door, leaving her hand to fall back to her side, lamely, as he unlocks the latch on top of the knob.

Once he gets the door to swing open, she watches the Soldat cross the threshold and take a sharp left to the staircase. It takes her another minute or so to get her own feet moving, but she joins him nonetheless, her deft hands tying her hair into a tight braid at the base of her skull, so it won’t get in the way of the mission.

An older gentleman, balding with a pot belly, steps out of one of the motel rooms closer to the staircase in just a fleece robe, stretching his arms out as he leans over the balcony. When he spots them coming towards him, the picture that the Soldat and her present, he gives her a discerning look that just crosses the border of lasciviousness, clearly making assumptions about the reason why a man who looks the way the Soldat looks would be accompanied by a sixteen-year-old girl who looks the way she does.

The look in the man’s eyes reminds her enough of the commander that she finds herself sidling closer to the Soldat, not for protection (she doesn’t doubt her ability to snap the man’s neck if the situation calls for it), but for grounding.

The Soldat, noticing her unease, glowers at the man dark enough that it has him paling and backing away into his motel room, shutting the door after him.

“Are all men that distasteful?” she mutters under her breath.

“When in doubt, yes,” the Soldat replies, marching down the stairs.

“Wonderful,” she sighs.

* * *

“I think this is the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done,” she grumbles.

“Stop complaining,” is the only reply the Engineer gets in response from the Soldat.

“This woman is arguably the most difficult mission we have ever been given – or, at least, _I’ve_ been given – and your strategy is to watch her from our car parked opposite our house. Don’t you think she’ll notice?” she demands.

“Of course, she will, but she would’ve noticed anything that we did,” the Soldier says, wearily. “Did you even read the intel on her?”

“Of course, I did.”

“Because, if you did, you’d know that she has been a thorn in HYDRA’s side for forty years and ongoing. She isn’t clearly one to be underestimated, and nothing we do will surprise her.”

“Doesn’t that mean that we’ll fail?” the Engineer points out.

The Soldat gives her a withering look. “Have we ever failed?”

The Engineer remembers jolting the rifle in 1982 and raises an eyebrow.

“Fine, have _I_ ever failed?” he amends.

“That makes me feel _so_ much better,” she mutters under her breath.

She splays her hand over the file in her lap and opens it up. She thumbs the picture of the target, just over the echo of her dark victory curls. She wonders how her hair would look in that style. Would she look as pretty as this woman? Why does she even care?

“She was a codebreaker in Bletchley Park,” she murmurs. “MI5, Strategic Scientific Reserve, Project Rebirth, and now, SHIELD. It’s quite the impressive resume.”

“You two would get on well together,” the Soldat hums. “If she weren’t our target.”

“C’est la vie,” she sighs. She flicks through another page. “She worked with Captain America.”

With how small the car is, how much space the Soldat takes up in their confined space, she knows the exact moment when the Soldat’s muscles ripple and knot like a hangman’s noose under his skin.

“Soldat?” she says, worriedly.

“What did you just say?” he asks, his voice brittle, like he’s made of clay figurines.

The Engineer blinks. “I said… she worked with Captain America,” she says, slowly. “Is that a problem?”

“Who is…” the Soldat hesitates, his face suddenly full of dizzying hurt and confusion. “Who is Captain America?” he whispers, his mouth full of dirt.

The Engineer pauses, looking down at the file, her finger trailing a line where the sun can be glimpsed in the corner of the photo down to the target’s pale, thin wrist in the other end.

“He was… an American super soldier,” she murmurs. “I think the corresponding initiative was called Project Rebirth?”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.” The Soldier’s voice trembles, like a thing about to die.

There’s an urge to touch his hand, thread her fingers through his and squeeze, but she doesn’t give into it.

Her hand stays in her lap.

“It was an American military initiative during World War II,” the Engineer explains, recalling what the handlers had taught her. “Captain America was known for thwarting HYDRA’s work. He killed _Generaloberst_ Schmidt, HYDRA’s leader during the war.”

The information comes out without inflection. She knows, as true, loyal HYDRA soldier, that she should be incensed that some American egalitarian radical killed their leader, but all she can muster is dull interest.

She stares at him, carefully, before touching his hair with easy, unthinking familiarity, even though she shouldn’t. He could snap her bones just as easily as take her hand, but he doesn’t. He just stares at her like a beggar on a battlefield.

She has nothing to say to him, nothing that will make any of what he’s feeling better, because she doesn’t even understand what is happening to him, why he looks like he’s standing on the edge of a yawning chasm, so close to tumbling over.

But he leans into her touch, just for a moment, her fingertips sliding into the slightly greasy strands of dark hair, and she thinks (she _hopes_ ) that it helps.

When she pulls away, the terror and confusion shutters off as if they were never there in the first place. She misses it, as strange as it sounds, that softness she had seen in him.

Whatever delicate thing she had seen in his eyes wanes, and he’s no longer the frightened being she would’ve taken for an ordinary man, and as it must be, it is the Winter Soldier, HYDRA’s greatest warrior, that she follows into the wet dark of night, relentless to the very end. 

* * *

They creep inside the target’s house while she is still at work.

The Engineer estimates it will take her another 65 minutes on average to return home. Neither her or the Soldat are foolish enough to think that the Director of SHIELD is anything less than meticulous in her protecting herself from threats, so, the Engineer doesn’t cross, nor does she allow the Soldat to cross, into the target’s property without ensuring that her own uniquely-constructed disruptor, which shuts down all the sensors and cameras within a five-kilometre distance – she doesn’t trust the target as far as she can throw them.

“Is it done?” he rumbles.

The Engineer nods, stiffly. “I don’t doubt she’s smart and she’s figured out a way to protect herself beyond an electricity or technology-based security system. But it’ll get us inside.”

The Soldat nods and marches forward onto the cement squares arranged in a pool of cobblestones, in thick, heavy steps.

 _So much for a ghost_ , she thinks to herself, uncharitably, but nonetheless follows him.

She sneaks around him and unlocks the target’s front door without compromising the integrity of the lock, so that the target won’t get suspicious upon turning the knob. The lock gives away with a slick little click, and the Engineer edges the door open just wide enough for both her and the Soldat to slip through and press themselves against the wall.

Who knows what kinds of measures the target could’ve set up for potential intruders?

They skulk across the wall in the dark until they reach a dimly-lit common area, which the Engineer assumes to be the target’s common room. She doesn’t need to try very hard to get the impression that someone, perhaps many, live in this home. There is a stray tube of lipstick left on the coffee table and an empty, used teacup. There are picture frames hanging on the walls, most featuring the target in some way, smiling like she has the world in her hands, with her arms wrapped around various others, her children, her husband, her friends.

Without thinking, the Engineer abandons her place against behind the wall leading into the lounge room and pads over to a particular photograph.

She grazes the faces with her fingertips, her hands shaking. The man in the photo has dark hair and eyes like hers, cheekbones and a nose and mouth all like hers. The woman beside the target has her smile, when she chooses to share it anyway, and her slim body and darker skin tone.

She wraps her arms around herself.

“Who-who are they?” she asks the Soldier, as if the earth is shaking around her.

The Soldier stares at her, unfathomably. “I don’t know,” he says, quietly.

The Engineer swallows hard. “Who is this woman?” she asks, her voice trembling with fear.

“Our target,” the Soldier reminds her, steadily, almost as if he’s begging her to remember who they are, what they are, and the dangers of too much thought.

The Engineer nods, somewhat shakily, and joins the Soldier in the dark little corner he’s fashioned for himself, just out of view of the entrance hall, such that the target won’t be able to see them once she comes into the house, not until she’s standing in the middle of the lounge.

By then, it will be too late.

The Engineer forces down any vicious little churning inside her, any uncertainty, any doubt, any confusion – there is a mission and a target, and she is good at what they do; she is not willing to compromise herself for anything she might find in these four walls.

A heavy hand falls on her shoulder and she jolts, looking up to find the Soldier’s eyes focused on her.

“You’re shaking,” he says, tonelessly. “You need to calm down.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she confesses, a little hysterically.

The Soldier softens. “We have a mission,” he says, like it’s everything in the world to them.

_It is everything to us and there is no room for failure. I will not be the reason we fail. I am not malfunctioning. I am not defective. I cannot be. I will not be. I refuse to be._

When she looks at the Soldier next, her eyes are clear, her pulse steady, and he nods, approvingly.

“Do you have any suggestions?” he asks, casually.

She is grateful for the distraction and his appreciation that she needed to be distracted.

“When she comes in,” she begins, haltingly. “I will disarm her and pin her down. You can take care of the rest.”

The Soldier nods, satisfied with the plan, and gestures for her to move to the opposite corner.

She looks up at him, questioningly.

“It broadens the range for the offensive,” he explains.

She nods her acquiescence and slinks across the wall to the other little alcove in the wall. The two lapse into silence, only stirring when they hear the turn of the key in the lock. The Engineer waits, her breath sticking in her throat, as the door opens with a slick little click and there’s a rush of cold air. She hears the sound of footsteps, the harsh pop of the target’s heels against the wooden floorboards, and the Engineer bites back a jolt when the target emerges into the lounge.

The target – Peggy Carter, as the file names her – is just as beautiful as her picture makes her out to be, with a dusting of grey hair around her hairline and sterner, lined features, which just makes her look more striking than she already did. The target drops her handbag on the coffee table and looks up, fixing her eyes on nothing in particular.

“You might as well come out now,” she calls out. “I already know you’re here. Let’s just get this over with.”

The Engineer wonders if the target really thinks they’re stupid enough to reveal themselves to her. Needless to say, she and the Soldier stay exactly where they are.

“Fine,” the target mutters. “You should know that I’ve had one hell of a day and I’m really not in the mood for any of this.”

The moment that the target fishes inside her purse for a weapon, the Engineer lunges, like a blur, colliding with the target and sweeping her legs out beneath her. It’s messier than it should be, and she isn’t proud of that, but it does the trick because it sends them both to the ground, grappling for the handgun before the target can fire.

 _M1911A1_ , the Engineer muses, absentmindedly, as she punches the target in the face, her knuckles splitting open.

Her knees bear down into the target’s kidneys, pinning her down, but the target is smart and definitely skilled, recovering well and quickly and flipping them over. The Engineer pulls up an elbow and knocks the target right in the mouth, which splits open the inside of the target’s cheek and makes her spit out blood. A bony knee slams into the target’s stomach, but the target bears down, forcing them into a fierce little struggle.

It all culminates in a loud gunshot, knocking the wind out of her, and when the Engineer looks down, there is a syrupy, red stain spreading across her armour. The barrel of the handgun is inches away and in the target’s pale, smooth hand, her grip steady. There’s not so much as pain, but a brutal, tight pressure that she can’t ignore right in the centre of her abdomen. The red doesn’t stop, gushing out like some horror movie scene she’s caught on the grainy television screen in motel rooms over the years. When she looks up at the target, she’s even more surprised by the blend of horror and disbelief on her face.

“That’s not possible,” the target whispers.

For some reason, instead of shooting her in the head, which would be the intelligent, most sensible option in the circumstances, the target releases her and jumps to her feet.

The Engineer chokes, her stomach red-hot and wet, and everything goes black.

* * *

When the Engineer wakes up, it’s to the flickering tube light in the motel room, or at least, that’s what she thinks. The whir of the air conditioner in the corner of the room is loud, making her head and ears hurt. Her stomach still feels hot and aching, like her insides are throbbing, and she can taste iron in her mouth.

 _Blood,_ she realises.

With all the strength she can muster, she turns her head, only to spot the Soldier sitting on the side of the bed, beside her.

“Don’t move,” he says, sternly.

“What’s going on?” she manages to slur.

“You were shot.” His voice is clipped, staring down at a thin plastic tube, filled with blood, that wraps around his wrist and across the bed to where the other end sits inside a hole in the crook of her elbow.

“What are you doing?” she rasps.

“You lost a lot of blood.”

“So?”

“So,” he says, coldly. “You need more blood.”

The Engineer blinks until all the pieces come together for her. “Are you-are you giving me a blood transfusion?” she asks, bemused.

“It was the only way,” the Soldier says, simply. “Otherwise, you will cease to function. Maintenance is required for optimal mission readiness.”

She doesn’t know if it’s the blood loss or the fading adrenaline, but panic curdles in her gut and it’s a wrong enough feeling that it makes her want to curl into a ball.

“I don’t-I don’t understand,” she whispers. Her hand twitches on top of the grimy mattress with urge to cover her eyes. “What did you do?”

“You were bleeding out in the target’s house. I removed you from the area.”

“Why?” she demands.

The Soldier shrugs, but the action looks aborted, mechanical on someone like him. “Your functioning was compromised. I had to maintain your integrity first.”

Somehow, the Engineer musters enough courage to latch onto his metal arm for support even if she feels self-conscious. “That isn’t in your primary protocol,” she says, carefully.

The Soldier stares at her, steadily. “I’m aware.”

“So, why?”

The Soldier blinks. “I am _responsible_ for you?” he says, as if he’s unsure of his own motives.

The Engineer shakes her head. “No, you’re not,” she says, heavily.

The Soldier frowns, swallowing that down. “Nonetheless, I had to remove you from the situation. You required extensive maintenance in order to correct your impairment.”

“But did you at least complete the mission?” she practically begs, hysterically.

The Soldier looks away and while the guilt flashes fleetingly on his face, but that one long, terrible second is enough for her to grasp it.

The Engineer has the sudden urge to tear clumps of her own hair out. “Why didn’t you complete the mission?”

“Like I said,” the Soldier clears his throat. “I had to keep you intact.”

“You made a mistake,” she says, miserably. “You know what the consequence of mission failure is.”

The Soldier grimaces. “I will handle it,” he reassures her.

She doesn’t believe him for a moment, but then it occurs to her what he plans to do.

“You mean that you will take the blame. No.” she shakes her head, frantically. “I won’t allow that. _I_ failed, not you.”

“You were shot,” he reminds her, almost gently. “That was not failure.”

“What _else_ was it?” the Engineer snaps.

“I gave you instructions; you followed,” he points out.

“Wrongly,” she retorts. “If I had followed your instructions efficiently, this would not have happened.”

“You can’t be sure of that. The target was… skilled,” the Soldier hedges.

She makes a derisive sound. “You mean I underestimated her,” she mutters. “I miscalculated, and I should’ve been more vigilant. I should’ve seen that she had the gun. I had ample time to complete the mission, but I got lost in the fight. I’ve taken down stronger opponents.” Her voice turns bitter. “She shouldn’t have been able to best me.”

“It is not abnormal to be bested in a physical altercation,” the Soldier says, quietly.

“You’ve never been,” she argues.

The Soldier’s lip curls. “Not that you and I know off.”

The Engineer pales. Never has he been so unblushing about his disgust for that chair that gives even her nightmares.

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she says, fiercely.

The Soldier sighs. “If you’re concerned about the commander learning of your role in all of this, I will take care of it.”

“I don’t approve,” she hisses.

“You have no choice.”

“I disagree. I will simply tell the commander the truth,” she says, coldly.

“Why?” he demands. “I’m offering you a reprieve.”

“For something that wasn’t your fault!”

“It wasn’t yours, either,” he snaps. “It was above your ability to prevent.”

“No, no, it wasn’t, and we both know that. Don’t lie to make me feel better about the situation.”

“I have no reason to make you feel better about _anything_. This is not an occasion for emotion,” he warns. “This is being utility and common sense.”

She shakes her head, refusing to accept anything he was putting forward. “It was _my_ fault.”

“Enough,” the Soldier says, gruffly. “I’ve had enough of this argument. I will not change my strategy.”

The Engineer visibly trembles, just for a moment, before she pulls herself together. “It’s not fair.” She looks down at her lap. “It was _my_ error. You should not be held accountable for my error.”

“Do not worry so much.” He lowers his voice. “Everything will work itself out.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispers. “And now, you’ve given me your blood. Isn’t that wrong as well?”

The Soldier’s brow furrows. “I don’t know why it would be? It’s just blood.”

“Everything we do is wrong to them,” she says, bitterly, and resists the urge to cover her mouth for that unfortunate exclamation.

The Soldier falls silent with enough of a grim look that it makes her worry. Finally, he opens his mouth.

“That may be,” he says, carefully. “But I see no reason for them to react strongly about what was done here. You were failing. This was the only way to repair you. They will see sense in our actions. As for the failure of the mission, I will handle it. Everything will be settled.”

The Engineer lies back down on the pillow, being very careful not to disturb the tube lodged in her arm. “I very much doubt that,” she says, dully, staring up at the bland ceiling.

* * *

Just as she predicted, the commander doesn’t see sense in anything that happened in Washington DC. In fact, he’s absolutely furious that one, the target continues to walk around, unimpeded and free to continue acting against their interests and two, the Soldier and the Engineer dared to share blood, acting of their own accord, without permission, even to perform critical asset maintenance in the field.

“Your blood…” the commander growls. “…doesn’t belong to you, Soldat.”

He strikes the kneeling form of the Soldat with the crackling cattle prod, making the Soldier grunt in pain and writhe on the linoleum floor. Something viscous and desperate cleaves inside her, and she digs her nails in her thighs before she does something stupid, warranting even greater fury from the commander, such as reach for the Soldier, pull him away from the commander’s violent touch.

The Engineer shuts her eyes.

It’s all her fault.

“Who told you that you could offer it to her?”

The commander strikes him again, making the Soldier keen horribly, like a dying animal.

The Engineer flinches.

“Perhaps you’ve grown weary of your calling, Soldat,” the commander says, coldly. “You have become defiant, and it is not pretty.”

He leans down and fists a hand in the Soldier’s dark, lank hair, pulling it back sharply and exposing his soft throat.

For a brief moment, the fear chokes her, and she wonders if the commander is so furious, so vengeful that he’ll simply drag a blade across the Soldier’s throat and end it all.

“And to top it all off, you failed your mission,” the commander laughs, coldly. “What a joke.” He kicks the Soldier in the side. “Honestly, what is the point of you if you can’t complete your mission. That is all you’re good for.”

The Soldier remains quiet, curled on the floor like a frightened child or animal.

The Engineer’s heart pounds against her lungs when the commander turns on her next.

“And you,” he saunters over to her. “Don’t think I forgot about you.”

The Engineer swallows past the knot in her throat.

“You’re the cause of everything,” he hisses. “He never failed until you arrived.”

The truth is on the tip of her tongue, but the words are too big and too frightening to leave her mouth.

She truly is a monster.

She could spare him all this pain, but she’s too much of a coward to do so.

She stares at the commander in the eye though. There is still something left inside her that is brave.

The commander’s face contorts with fury and he backhands her, sending her sprawling onto the floor, clutching at her fever-hot cheek.

“We can try again,” she says, fiercely, lifting her chin.

The commander stares down at her like she’s dirt on his shoe (it isn’t so hard to believe that). “You think someone like Peggy Carter survives an attempted assassination and does nothing to prevent such an occurrence from happening again?” he asks, disgusted. “You will never touch that woman again, I assure you.”

“There may be another chance,” she says, desperately.

“No, there won’t be,” he snarls. “Thanks to you and _him_.” He eyes the Soldier with loathing. “Useless. So fucking useless.” He mutters to himself. “I want to know why he would share his blood with you.” the commander demands. “Tell me, girl.”

The Engineer looks at him, helplessly. “He was performing asset maintenance, commander,” she explains, bemused by the question.

“Was that all he was doing?”

The Engineer swallows hard. “I don’t understand, commander.”

The commander sneers. “I think you do.”

He kneels down in front of her and she can’t help but cringe away, because she’s been in this exact same position a dozen times before and she knows exactly what this man’s rage brings out in him.

It’s a beast that never stops eating.

The commander wraps a hand around her soft throat and squeezes until her lungs start burning and her eyes fill with tears. Every instinct in her body screams to grapple at his fingers, pull them away from her before he finally kills her, but he may just snap her neck like this, like an animal, if she dares to fight back anyway.

And she won’t allow herself to be decommissioned so quickly, not when the Soldier has shielded her from harm, not when he bled for her, for a transgression that he never committed.

No, it would be selfish to leave him alone in this world, when he has done so much for her. 

He shakes her like a chicken to be slaughtered for meat. “What is there between you and him? Has he touched you? Has he fucked you?” he demands.

She can’t reply, not with his hands crushing her trachea so tight. But she tries her hardest to shake her head.

“I don’t believe you,” he bites out, in an ugly tone. “Now, tell me the fucking truth.”

He releases her, just the slightest, to get her breathing properly and to allow her to speak.

“Well?”

She gasps. “No.”

He thrusts her down, knocking her head against the linoleum.

“You belong to HYDRA first, you little cunt. You are whatever I choose you to be. Do you understand?” the commander spits in her face. “If I hear of you and any rebellion, I will give you to my soldiers, do you understand? They can do with you whatever they like. Or perhaps, I’ll feed you to the dogs, see which body part they go after first. Remember, girl, you belong to us. You do not exist without us. I have been patient with you, merciful with you, but that ends today. Do you understand me?”

The Engineer nods, shakily, cowering in front of him. She chokes when his grip around her throat tightens, unrelenting.

“I _said_ , do you understand me?”

“Yes, commander,” she croaks.

He sneers down at her. Then, he walks over to the Soldier, who is, once again, kneeling at attention. He lashes out and kicks the Soldier again in the gut, drawing a muffled sound of pain.

“The same goes for you,” he growls. “Do you understand me, Soldat? Perhaps you are now more man than asset, despite everything we’ve done for you, everything we’ve given you: purpose, shelter, mercy. Perhaps the pull of her cunt is too much for you to resist. Frankly, I don’t really care. But if I hear of any defiance, any disobedience, any rebellion, _from either of you_ , I will destroy you. I will cut her open, piece by piece, and feed her to you. I will gut her like a pig, crush her skull, pull her spine out of her back, hollow her insides out with a spoon, and I will make _you_ do it all until you understand your place and hers because the two of you exist at _my_ will, Soldat. Not yours, and certainly not hers. Do you understand?”

The Soldier nods, stiffly, after a moment, holding himself together. “ _Ya gotov otvechat, komandir_.”

_Ready to comply, commander._

She was right.

This is all her fault.

* * *

Their next missions pass with a resounding success, and the commander is almost pleasant in his attitude towards them, but she hasn’t forgotten the way he beat the Soldier with a cattle prod, the way he choked her like an animal and the words he said to her and the Soldier.

She knows the Soldier has not forgotten it either.

In fact, he tries his very hardest not to look her in the eye.

It’s a loss that makes her chest hurt something fierce.

Their first mission after the failure to dispatch Margaret Carter takes place in Mexico. It is a long drive from their current base to where the mission will take place, and the Engineer and the Soldier make their way to one of the cars supplied to them by HYDRA.

The Soldier slips inside the driver’s seat. But when she goes to open the passenger door, the knob breaks off in her hand, the metal crumpling under her grip. For a moment, she stares at it with confusion and she looks up at him, hoping for something, _anything_ , that would reassure her.

But he offers her nothing.

“Get in the car,” he says, shortly, opening the door from his end.

Her heart sinks.

She gets in the car.

It’s a long drive to Mexico and the Soldier refuses to speak to her at all, but to give her instructions. Not that he was so talkative prior to their last mission, but there was at least some comfort in their silence. Now, the Engineer fears that if the Soldier was given the chance, he’d just shove her out of the car door onto the highway and keep driving.

She knows that the commander had lapsed in forcing the Soldier to the chair ahead of their departure for Mexico, which means that it’s _her_ that the Soldier is angry at, and this goes beyond his normal detachment from the world around him, but for the mission.

She, of course, being as wilful as she is, tries to broach the subject with him as careful as can be.

“I’m sorry,” she offers.

The Soldier doesn’t reply; he doesn’t even acknowledge that she’s spoken. Instead, his eyes are so pivoted on the stretch of the road in front of him that he refuses to even concede to her existence in this tiny metal death trap, which she could transform beyond anyone’s wildest dreams if she were only given the chance to do more than requisite maintenance when the old tin can blows up from right underneath them.

She wrings her hands together. “You shouldn’t have had to pay for my errors,” she says, quietly.

She watches as the Soldier squeezes the steering wheel, but not with enough stretch to snap it apart in his hands, like the handle on the passenger door that continues to confuse her.

Something hysterical bursts inside her. “I told you, though,” she insists, the anger flaring hot. “And you didn’t listen to me. You refused to listen to me. I wanted to take the blame, but instead we were both punished for a mistake that was mine alone. If you had just let me tell the commander the truth-”

“Do you truly think he would’ve spared me?” the Soldier demands.

The Engineer falls silent.

“I told him it was my fault the mission failed, and the target continues to live, and he punished me, as is his right. But he punished you as well, because _you were with me_. Had you told him the truth, had you told him what happened, he would’ve punished _you_ harder, yes, but eventually he would’ve stepped back from you and turned on me. Just as he did with you.”

“But-”

“Don’t you understand yet? Your mistakes are my mistakes. Accordingly, my mistakes are your mistakes,” he says, sternly.

The Engineer flinches and looks out of the window.

“Listen, it was still my fault,” he says, gently. “I abandoned the mission in favour of getting you to safety. That was my choice. Consequently, that was my mistake.”

“I should’ve dispatched her quicker,” the Engineer insists.

“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But you were also damaged. It was not wholly your fault. And I could’ve easily terminated the target after you were impaired. But I _chose_ not to. I prioritised you over the mission, and as such, I was punished correctly for it. Do you understand?” the Soldier asks, earnestly.

The Engineer wrings her hands together in her lap. “But you were hurt, because of me,” she says, earnestly.

The Soldier takes a deep breath. “I will heal. I always heal,” he says, simply.

The Engineer wonders what it must feel like to be so resigned, so unresisting with one’s existence.

She wonders if in a few years, when her obedience now comes from predominantly fear, her obedience will come from belief and from acceptance, however forced it may be, as his has become.

She wonders if that’s what she wants for herself.

Does she even have a right to want anything for herself?

_I belong to HYDRA first._

_I am whatever the commander chooses me to be._

_I exist at the commander’s will, not my own._

None of it fits correctly in her bones, for some reason, but the other side of that coin is not something she can linger on just yet.

“Do you regret it?”

She doesn’t know why she asks, why she needs to know the answer. But the question bleeds against the backdrop of her life and she just wants her pocket of the world clean again.

This is all too confusing.

It makes her think things she shouldn’t be thinking, feeling things she shouldn’t be feeling, things that would warrant a punishment should the commander learn of her faltering.

“I don’t understand the question,” the Soldier replies, blithely.

“Do you regret taking the blame for me?”

“No.”

* * *

They reach their motel room without much fanfare, but as she tries to get out of the car, she bends the metal of the interior door handle when opening the door, and it snaps off, lying there lamely in the palm of her hand.

She looks at the Soldier, helplessly.

The Soldier sighs. “Use your tools,” he suggests and slides out of the driver seat.

The Engineer glares at him. He returns her stare, steadily.

“I’m not going to break the glass for you to crawl out,” he tells her. “It would just draw attention. Use your tools.”

“That will take forever,” she complains.

“Then, I suggest that you get started now.”

The Engineer glowers, but nonetheless, starts extracting her tools, one by one, out of their hiding places on her person. As she had first thought, it takes her quite a while and a lot of manoeuvring in the confined space, but she manages to slide her metal probe into the thin little channel, engaging the latch under the broken metal. She removes the entire interior trim panel and pries open the little plastic clips that hold the latch in place. She plays around with the latch until she manages to hear a slick click and the door swings open.

She falls out of the car, considering her precarious position while trying to open the door, and lands on the gravel with a muffled sound of surprise and pain, her palms tearing up against the sharp filament and burning. She winces, but pulls herself to her feet, stumbling over to where the Soldier is standing at attention at the front of the car.

“You could’ve at least helped,” she grumbles.

“I told you, I won’t risk drawing attention,” he says, simply.

The Engineer raises an eyebrow. “You would think if non-combatants saw me struggling inside the car, that would draw attention.”

“Not as much as me breaking the glass with my metal arm.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “Did you get the room keys?”

“Yes,” the Soldier replies. “Here.”

He drops one in her palm, unblemished as it always was.

She stares at it, confused.

“That’s strange,” she murmurs.

The Soldier frowns. “What is?”

“My hands,” she explains. “They were all cut up when I fell out of the car. I scraped them on the road. There was blood. But now… it’s fine. Healed.” She looks up at him, her heart beating rapidly. “What’s happening to me?”

The Soldier grasps her wrist in his big, deft hand, eyeing the smooth, lightly tanned skin of her palms with concern and curiosity parsed out in equal measure. She watches as his expression changes with every moment that passes, from almost feigned indifference to terror to resolve.

“What? What is it?” she demands.

He drops her hand like it’s made of poison.

“Just… get inside,” he says, sternly. “I’ll explain.”

She does as he asks, and the two of them climb the rickety staircase to their room, which looks the perfect replica of an American motel room, even if they crossed the border miles and miles ago.

“What is it?” she asks, worriedly, once she closes the door behind it and thinks to lock it.

“The car doors, your hand… this all started happening after the last mission in Washington DC, yes?” the Soldier looks at her for clarification.

“Yes,” she says, slowly.

“And your throat, I remember the commander choked you, tight and for a considerable amount of time. The bruising has disappeared quickly, quicker than it would have on you prior to the mission,” the Soldier reasons.

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

The Soldier sighs. “This all started happening after the last mission in Washington DC, which means that this is likely a result of the blood transfusion.”

“I’ve seen you rip doors off hinges,” she says, quietly. “You have this strength as well.”

The Soldier nods, stiffly. “Exactly, which means-”

“-whatever it is, it was in your blood. And now I have it too,” she finishes, heavily. She looks up at him, helplessly. “We can’t tell anyone.”

“No,” the Soldier exhales. “This should remain between us.”

* * *

**1987**

“Do you know what today marks, girl?”

The Engineer fists her hands in the leggings they give her to wear.

She doesn’t answer, not immediately, and it earns her a harsh slap to the face.

“I _said_ , do you know what today marks?” he asks, coldly.

The Engineer shakes her head.

“Today, the Brady Bill will be introduced in the US Congress for the first time. Do you know what the Brady Act is, girl?”

The Engineer shakes his head. “No, commander.”

“Well, you should. It’s the consequence of your actions, after all,” the commander says, grimly. “You see, the bill requires that background checks be conducted on individuals before a firearm may be purchased. In addition, it prevents those who have been convicted of a crime, a fugitive from justice, a drug user, mentally ill people, illegal aliens, dishonourably discharged soldiers etc. from purchasing and possessing such a firearm as well. Can you think of any reason why this bill came into existence?”

The Engineer visibly shakes. “No, commander.”

“It was the result of the campaigning of Sarah Brady, the wife of James Brady, who was the press secretary to Ronald Reagan. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

The Engineer swallows hard. “Commander?”

“You killed the Press Secretary, girl,” the commander says, almost apple-sweet, like he’s on her side. Like a faulty switch, his mood turns angry. “Or have you already forgotten your greatest failure?”

* * *

* * *

“No, commander.”

“Are you sure? You seem entirely too non-verbal for this situation. I haven’t even received any gratitude from you for my mercy all those years ago. I could’ve had you killed, and no one would’ve blinked an eye, because you would’ve deserved it. But now, you’ve made me look a fool in the eyes of everyone. You’ve thrown my mercy and my soft spot for you back in my face. Are you pleased seeing me brought so low? Do you have any idea how difficult you’ve made our existence now? See what you’ve wrought for the people who were so kind enough to give you purpose, a life, food, shelter, everything you could possibly need? I am disappointed in you, girl. I never thought a selfish creature. Perhaps, I was wrong.”

The Engineer bows her head. “I’m sorry, commander.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, grimly. “But you will be.”

* * *

Unfortunately for her, the welts on her back don’t heal as well as they should, even with her new gifts. She winces with every step she takes, her clothing rubbing up against her skin. Finally, she settles, gingerly, on the seat in front of the computer.

The Soldier gives her a discerning look from where he stands guard at the door. “You’re hurt.”

The Engineer nods, stiffly.

“Why?”

“I was… punished for the indirect consequences of a mistake.”

“What mistake?” the Soldier asks.

“The mission in Washington DC.” she explains. The Soldier cocks his head, confused. “Reagan?”

“I don’t remember,” comes the reply from the Soldier, who sounds bewildered by why there’s a gap in his memory. “When was this?”

“1981.”

The Soldier makes a face, a little tinged with fear. “I don’t remember.”

But the Engineer knows why. It comes to her very slow, but she remembers being dragged back to her cell after being punished the first time.

“They took you to the chair,” she exhales.

The Soldier frowns. “What?”

“I remember,” she says, tentatively. “When they came back with me, after they were done… _repairing_ … me, they took me back to the cell. And you were there, in the one next to me, and you just looked at me and asked _who are you_. They took you to the chair after we returned from the mission.”

The Soldier’s hands shake. “I don’t remember,” he says, dully.

For a brief moment, she wonders what it would be like to embrace him. She’s seen that sort of affection between non-combatants, in the streets, in the filthy motels they stay in, in pictures in houses, and it doesn’t quite make sense to her, but there’s an urge there, curling under her bones.

But she doesn’t give into it.

That would be wrong.

Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and remains silent.

The Soldier clears his throat and looks away, his dark, lanky hair hanging around his face like a curtain.

“How long will it take for you to complete the mission?” he asks, roughly.

The Engineer turns back to the computer screen and flexes her fingers.

“Hopefully, not too long.”

Technology, just like humans, can make mistakes.

However, sometimes, it just needs a push.

* * *

On October 19, 1987, the stock markets around the world crash.

The commander smiles and squeezes her shoulder for a job well done.

* * *

**1988**

_Bahawalpur, Pakistan_

The Soldier leaves to shoot down a plane containing the President of Pakistan, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the United States Ambassador to Pakistan and a military attaché, with a Kalashnikov strapped to his back and his muzzle shielding half of his face, which leaves her blessedly alone for the very first time as long as she can remember, in this hot little motel room in Bahawalpur.

She sighs and thumps her head monotonously against the thin pillows on her bed. She palms the television remote and switches on the set, which crackles to life with a great deal of resistance. She is marginally fluent in Punjabi and Urdu, so she finally settles on a rerun of _Khuda Ki Basti._

There’s a man on screen, young, in his early twenties, with smooth, unmarked, cleanly-shaven skin, laughing, showing his white, straight teeth. It sparks something akin to heat inside her, low in her belly. She huffs, not understanding what it means, but knowing that she needs _something_. Her hands clench aimlessly around nothing on top of the mattress, and she places them on her thighs, the warmth of her palms bleeding through the thin linen of her clothing and onto her skin.

Goosebumps erupt on her skin and she inhales, sharply.

_Oh._

She runs her hands over her skin, which pimples under the graze of her fingertips. Her nipples tighten when she passes over her breasts. Her hands hover over her hips, somehow unable to take that final step.

She hasn’t forgotten what the commander said.

She bites her lip.

_No._

_Yes._

She sighs. She rolls up the hem of her tunic until it’s folded underneath her breasts. She edges a small hand underneath the waistband of her leggings and slips a hand between her legs. She wriggles about on top of the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position for herself. She’s surprisingly wet and the scent of her arousal only blossoms as she starts to explore.

She closes her eyes and imagines the man on the television set, able to see the correlation between the image of him on the screen and her current physical state. However, the image shakes and wilts away. It shifts into the image of a woman, with dark skin and dark eyes and soft breasts and lithe body, and the agony of the unsatisfied heat returns.

The image changes again and she imagines a man on top of her with big, deft hands, chest hair and strong thighs. She imagines the scratch of that hair against her nipples, her legs spread over his arms, feeling the ripple of muscle under his skin against hers. His hair is long, hanging over his shoulders, and it falls onto her collarbone in a smooth tickle. In her little illusion, she brushes his hair away from her face, and parts her mouth under his eagerly, rolling her hips to meet heavy, desperate thrusts of him between her legs.

His eyes are blue-grey.

_Oh._

_Soldat._

The blood is hot in her face, her pulse a heavy thud, as she strokes at the hard, little nub at the tip of her cunt. It makes her wetter, her thighs turning slick, and she grapples for something with her free hand, the urge twisting under her skin.

It’s with the Soldier in mind that she comes, hard, the orgasm rattling through her at once, leaving her limp and trembling on top of the mattress.

When she pulls her hand away, her fingers are damp with slick and sweat, and she feels dizzy, almost drunk, with it all, panting a little into the pillow. She rolls off the bed, shaky on her feet, but stumbles her way into the meagre shower in the room. The water in the shower is ice-cold when she turns the spray on, and it makes her shudder a little, curling in on herself to get away from the chill. Even after all these years of missions, she is yet to get used to the feeling of running water hitting her bare skin, not when they hose her down like an animal whenever they can be bothered when she is at the base.

The water, thankfully, slowly turns warm and the knot in her chest loosens, as she splays her hands on the tile of the little square alcove, stretching out her arms as far as she can. She takes slow, deep breaths, oscillating between cold resignation and outright panic, white noise roaring in her ears.

Outside the walls of the bathroom, the door to their motel room opens and closes.

“ _Gayetchka_?”

“Coming!” she calls out.

She abruptly switches off the water and steps out of the shower cubicle, the water still dripping from her hair in a slow pitter-patter.

But she can’t seem to get the image of him, and what she felt _because_ of the image of him, out of her head.

* * *

**1989**

_Munich, Germany_

The Engineer lies in wait, artfully placing herself just enough out of the way of the guests’ line of sight, but close enough that they will still see her if they watch carefully. She sips at a glass of champagne that is bitter going down and wonders, yet again, why alcohol is such a staple resource in today’s world when it tastes so disgusting.

But it does the trick, because the way that her mouth touches the rim of the glass attracts her target’s attention. She watches as heat stirs in his green eyes and his lip curls into a lazy, hungry smile. He abandons his conversation and saunters over to her, cutting quite the figure in his black suit.

She has to admit, as she cocks her head, that he is definitely one of her more handsome targets, with dark hair, pale skin and an unshaven jaw.

“Hello.”

She smiles and stares at him through her dark eyelashes. “Hello.”

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” he teases, leaning on the table behind her.

His voice is accented, a thin little lilt that tells her that, while he may speak fluent and perfect English, he has spent his entire life in this country.

She catalogues the fifty-five different ways she could kill him without anyone ever realising it was happening, and curls her lip to show how plump it is.

Just as she expected, his eyes darken, and his smile widens.

“Have I?” she asks, pretending to be confused by the accusation. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I didn’t see you here with anyone,” he says, casually.

“I’m alone,” she explains.

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” She bites her lip. “Do you plan to do something about it?” she asks, boldly.

There is no point in playing coy.

He’s already on her line.

“If you’d like me to,” he says, vaguely, but his fingertips brush the bare skin of her upper arm, near her shoulder.

She resists the urge to throw him down onto the table and beat him with that metal ladle she can see inside the punch bowl.

But she smiles.

They told her to smile, to look at him like she’s lovesick, so he’ll drag her back to his bed and she can kill him there.

Termination, it seemed like such an indifferent, inhuman word for what she does, for what the Soldier does, but nowadays, she sees it for what it is: murder.

She is a murderer.

But she’s accepted her lot in life.

It bothered her a little in the beginning, but the more that blood splatters on her hands and it doesn’t fade, the easier it is for her to let it go.

The man leads her away with a nice word, a soft touch, a gentle smile here and there until he thinks she’s utterly besotted with him (or his body). She takes his hand and lets him pull her to his hotel room. She sways a little, giggling and pretending that she’s drunk even though she could down a bottle of champagne and it wouldn’t do much to her. She grabs the door frame for support and twists around, let him crowd her against it.

He thinks it’s sexy; she thinks she actually wants to kill him.

He leans down and kisses her on the mouth.

It’s her first kiss. It’s wet and there’s too much teeth, but she kisses back nonetheless. For a minute, she loses herself in the heat of it, and doesn’t even shudder when he wraps his arms around her. Soon, she feels like a cat about to be strangled, but she knows her mind and she knows her mission.

He walks her to the bed, unzipping her dress. She kicks it away without even looking at it and lets him push her down on it, even though her hands could snap his neck without a second thought. She lets him crawl on top of her, even though the weight of him makes her want to gut him like a pig until he falls off her.

She remembers that hotel room in Pakistan, how much she wanted that weight on top of her, how much she wanted the _Soldier_ on top of her.

She wonders if the Soldier would feel like this on her, so dense and uncompromising and oppressive.

No, she doubts it.

He strips her off her underwear and brassiere, the lacy things that chafed at her skin, given to her by the handlers. There is a sense of discomfort at being so exposed in front of a stranger, but it soon fades away when he runs a warm hand up her side.

She’s wet when he puts his fingers inside her, sliding all the way to the knuckle with ease, stretching her. It’s a little strange, a little uncomfortable, but soon she’s squirming on the sheets, unsure of what she wants, what she feels or what she needs. He’s deliberate and good at what he does, stroking her in a way that makes every nerve ending under her skin stand up in attention.

He deems her ready enough, but she still startles when she feels the blunt end of his cock pressing against her, the latex of the condom greasy, but helping her cunt give away and open up. It hurts, like a dull ache that rolls out to her pelvic bone. She grits her teeth, as he hikes her onto his lap, groping at her arse. There’s something sticky and wet down there that feels different to the slick her body produces naturally, and she guesses it’s blood.

She doesn’t know how that makes her feel.

His hand slides between her legs and he rests the heel of his hand against her clit, rubbing soft circles. Her arousal peaks slowly, but surely, and she drags him down for a deep, filthy kiss, as she comes. She sinks back against the sheets with a sigh when that hot, lovely rush of pleasure starts to fade. The target continues to thrust, heaving on top of her and grunting, and she barely resists the urge to grimace. Finally, _thankfully_ , he comes as well with a loud noise, collapsing on top of her, panting into her neck.

She clenches her fists. It would be so easy to kill him now.

But she doesn’t.

He rolls off her, removing the condom and depositing it in the rubbish bin, before returning to the bed. He slips under the sheets, quirking an eyebrow at her preference to lie on top, and turns his back to her.

She wonders if he would like to ‘cuddle’ with her, as she’s seen on television.

He falls asleep quickly, and she debates what would be the best way to complete the mission.

However, the choice is quickly stolen from her.

The Soldier is a sleek ripple in the shadows of the room, but she sees him. The man snoring peacefully beside her in the bed doesn’t even register when the Soldier pulls the trigger and two bullets cleave into his skull.

She huffs when the blood hits her skin and congeals. “You could’ve waited,” she complains.

“ _You_ could’ve completed the mission yourself,” the Soldier says, shortly, holstering his gun.

She rolls her eyes and rolls out of the bed, still naked. There are streaks of blood against her thighs, come and slick and sweat that she’s sure he must see or scent in the air.

The Soldier refuses to look anywhere south of her eyes, but there’s a muscle in his jaw that twitches.

“I was going to,” she snaps.

The Soldier narrows his eyes. “You are playing a dangerous game,” he warns.

She sighs. “This was my mission,” she reminds him. “And I have discretion to complete it in any way I wish.”

“You just think that,” the Soldier snorts. “When you return to the base, you’ll be told everything you did wrong. And I assure you, there will _always_ be something wrong.”

She wonders if he thinks of her as some little fool who doesn’t understand the consequences of her insolence, but she does. 

She understands well. 

She remembers every time they beat her into the ground like a piece of meat, like violence does anything but breed more violence.

She just knows how to mind her mouth enough that they won’t kill her, just the way he taught her.

She looks away. “We should go.”

He grunts in agreement. “Get dressed,” he said, shortly.

She throws her hands up in the air. “Why are you so angry at me?” she demands.

The Soldier grits his teeth. “This was not the appropriate way to complete the mission.”

“The handlers wanted me to complete the mission like this,” she points out, grimly. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t have dressed me up like a prostitute. They didn’t want me to slink into his hotel room while he slept and slit his throat. They wanted me to catch his eye at that function, and they wanted him to take me up to his room willingly. What else was I supposed to do once I got here? The moment I reneged on our unspoken bargain, he would’ve taken what he wanted.”

“We both know what you’re capable of.” The Soldier crosses his arms over his chest. “Am I just supposed to think you would’ve _let_ him do what he wanted?”

She lifts her chin. “If that is my mission, then, yes.”

The Soldier looks away. “You shouldn’t have to compromise yourself,” he says, roughly.

The Engineer gives him a smile that could cut like a knife. “You and I both know that isn’t true, not for us.” She crosses her arms over her bare breasts, suddenly feeling like a butterfly tacked to a display case. “Can you… can you please pass me my dress?” she asks, awkwardly. “It’s just in front of the bed, there.”

The Soldier nods, his gaze on her unusually and unbearably soft. He kneels beside the bed, ignoring the remnants of what had happened between her and her target, which makes her blush hot for a reason that she doesn’t want to linger on and grabs her dress, handing her the clump of material. She quickly dresses herself, and awkwardly tries to grab the zip at the base of her spine, huffing when she didn’t quite manage to grip it between her fingers.

“Can you… can you please pull the zip up?” she asks, quietly, turning her back on him.

She hears the soft footfalls of him coming up behind her. She focuses on steady work of his heart and lungs, but nonetheless jolts a little when his fingers brush against the bare skin of her back, pushing her unbound hair over her shoulders.

He drags the zipper up with aching slowness and when it hits the top, she finally discovers that she has lungs as well, taking a deep breath. When she turns around, he’s looming in front of her, his gaze careful and weighty.

His eyes don’t leave hers, even when he takes her hand and pulls her away from the corpse of a man who had used her body as his bed and still managed to sleep like an unburdened child.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. She doesn’t want to look at anything or anyone else.

* * *

When they return to the base, the Engineer is subjected to an exam by the handlers. They lay her out on a cot and paw between her legs with a startling amount of curiosity that makes her want to wretch. Their fingers are thick and cold and dry when they push up inside her, and she grits her teeth, biting back a hurt little noise at the abrupt sting.

“Well?” the commander demands, from where he’s peering with stoic interest in the corner of the cold room.

“Her hymen tore,” one of the handlers tells him, impassively. “There is evidence of that. She has healed, however.”

“Clearly,” the commander mutters. “She has the Asset’s gifts now, after all. But there _is_ evidence of it?”

“Yes, commander.”

“Good.” The commander smiles at her. “Looks like you successfully completed your mission, girl.”

He saunters over to her and rounds the cot, until he’s standing just behind her head. He runs his hand through her hair, almost absentmindedly.

She wishes she could forget just as easily he manages to.

“It’s a pity, actually,” he tells the handlers, looking down at her briefly. “I would’ve liked first rights to her.”

The Engineer digs her nails into her hip.

She smells blood when she finally manages to break the skin.

She doesn’t care.

She just wants him to stop touching her.

* * *

The next day, she’s brought to the commander, along with the Soldier, and made to kneel before him, with her head bowed.

“Your work has attracted a certain fame, it would seem,” he begins, casually.

Neither of them moves an inch.

“As such, you will be loaned to the Red Room. They are a program run by the KGB in Russia, training young orphaned girls to become highly-skilled operatives and assassins, in order to further the Soviet cause. So, essentially, to become like you, just not as… accomplished, or gifted. They have need of you. You will aid them. Understood?”

“Yes, commander,” they both intone, their eyes still focused on the floor.

“Good,” the commander sighs. “Now, I trust that both of you will behave yourself while you are with the KGB. I would hate to learn of any… mischief or defiance.”

“Yes, commander.”

“After all, it would be a true shame if you returned to us and we were forced to… educate you all over again.”

“Yes, commander.”

“Very well. Keep the faith. Hail HYDRA.”

“Hail HYDRA.”


	3. 1990

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the final chapter for this fic.
> 
> There will be a sequel, detailing the future, fear not, and it's already begun!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: sexual assault of an adult, dubious consent with a consensual sexual encounter, torture, threats of rape/non-consensual sex, explicit sexual content, explicit language, threats of murder, non-consensual touching, physical assault, non-consensual body modification, attempted forced fertilisation, attempted reproductive coercion, PTSD symptoms, trauma.
> 
> This satisfies the "jealousy" (S4) square of the Tony Stark Bingo.

**1990**

_Cairo, Egypt_

“Rifaat el-Mahgoub,” she declares, sauntering up to him.

“Yes, I’m aware,” he says, taking the apple she hands to him.

She watches as he takes a bite, taking a moment to relish the sweet bite. “Tell me the point of this mission.”

“The Soviets and the Americans are in a state of carefully-crafted peace,” the Soldier explains.

She smiles, raking her eyes over his loose-limbed lazy sprawl against the wall (she would never have seen him like this when they were with HYDRA, but being leased to the Red Room like a warehouse has its advantages).

“ _Carefully-crafted?_ ” she teases.

The Soldier almost manages a smile. “The US has requested this of their allies, and the Soviets will deliver.”

“You mean, _we’ll_ deliver,” she corrects.

The Soldier raises an eyebrow. “It’s the same thing,” he reminds her. “Remember, we belong to them now.”

She huffs and takes her place beside him, palm splayed against the wall, so close that her smallest finger is brushing against his. She turns her head, slightly, to catch a glimpse of his expression, but nothing changes. If anything, if her sight and judgment can be believed, all the lines in his face soften, and there’s an upward arch to his mouth.

“Do we really belong to them? I thought we were on loan,” she drawls.

“We are, but that doesn’t mean they own us any less than HYDRA.” He blinks. “Well, they do own us _a little_ less, but-”

“I know what you mean,” she interjects. She hesitates, staring at him through the strands of her hair. “They are more lenient with us.” she points out.

“They are,” he agrees. He stares at her, grimly. “That doesn’t mean they are any less dangerous.”

She raises an eyebrow. “After all these years, you continue to underestimate me,” she sighs.

There’s a hint of red rolling out across his cheeks. He clears his throat. “I don’t… _underestimate_ you.”

The Engineer laughs and pats his hand, clutching at his uncovered wrist, a throb stretching from their clasped hands all the way into her throat.

She wonders if he feels it too.

She hopes he does.

And the way his eyes turn downward, to where they’re holding each other, and his gaze turns unbearably soft, it tells that he does, indeed.

“I think you do, _moj soldat_ ,” she murmurs.

“You’ve switched to Russian completely now,” he comments, wryly.

She waggles her eyebrows. “When in Rome, and all that.”

The Soldier’s lips twitch.

“We should go, _zaichik_ ,” she tells him. “We still have a mission to complete.”

“I am _not_ a bunny,” she hears him call after her.

She laughs.

The Soviets are good to them.

* * *

“You’re certain your device will work accurately,” he asks for the fiftieth time since the day before.

She rolls her eyes and pulls out a handheld device that acts as a terminal for the tracker patch she had managed to plant on the target’s person while conducting her reconnaissance yesterday. She thumbs through the display, until it shows a vivid blue circle tracing the target’s steps, over the soft copy of a Cairo street map.

“He’ll be rounding the corner now,” she tells him.

The Soldier nods and they come around the edge of the wall they were gathered behind, just in time to see the target’s car park towards the curb. She takes a step forward, but he halts her with a deliberate touch of his fingertips against her pulse point. She stops in her tracks, her wrist burning where the name on her wrist that she doesn’t touch is. She inclines her head, looking at her feet and moving back against the wall so she won’t be seen, when the Soldier prowls forward in the shadows, unseen to anyone but her.

He comes up behind the passenger side of the car, his shadow drawn on the sidewalk by the hazy yellow light of the streetlamp.

Two pops of his gun right into the target’s skull and he’s dead in his seat.

The Soldier returns to her.

“Why did you do that?” she asks, quietly.

He cocks his head. “Do what?” he pretends like he doesn’t know what she’s referring to.

“Stop me from completing the mission,” she snaps, a little frustrated.

The Soldier narrows his eyes. “What makes you think I stopped you from doing something?”

“You and I both know you did,” she says, dangerously.

The Soldier leans it, his face etched cold. “Perhaps I was saving you. Did you ever think about that?”

“Saving me from what?”

“There’s only so much blood you can get on your hands before it stops washing off, _gayetchka_ ,” he says, almost kindly. “Now, we should return back to base.”

With one final look at the car lying dead on the street, she exhales and follows him.

* * *

“I hadn’t thought your reputation could be believed, until now.”

She and the Soldier stand at attention in front of the Chairman of the KGB.

“But you’ve done wonders.” The Chairman gives them a rare smile, leaning back in his chair. “You will do great work for us, _Soldat_ , _Inzhener_.”

They remain stoic.

Sentiment on their parts are not welcome.

“Before you return to your rooms, I would like for you to meet someone.” The Chairman crooks his fingers and old, stern-looking woman steps out from where she was leaning against the wall. “This is Madame B: the director of our Red Room program.”

Madame B. inclines her head. “It’s an honour to meet the _Zimniy Soldát_ and his _Inzhener_.”

The Engineer ignores the brief flutter in her chest at the way she’s introduced, and stands like stone.

“We actually had another assignment for the two of you, if you will, of course, agree,” the Chairman says, pleasantly, as if they really have a choice.

Even here, even with the Soviets and all their indulgence, they have no choice.

She and the Soldier look at each other.

She steps forward at the Soldier’s nod – they always take turns doing the talking.

“We serve at your pleasure,” she says, demurely.

Madame B. smiles lazily and claps her hands together. “Wonderful. Come with me.”

With one final, courteous nod to the Chairman, who waves them away, they follow Madame B. out of the Chairman’s office, down long, winding corridors until they come to a set of double doors, made of rosewood, bound shut with long steel chains.

The Engineer looks around, as subtly as possible, marvelling at the warmth in the walls, the carpet soft and pliant under her boots. If she didn’t know better, if she didn’t know the treason and death they forged in these walls, she’d think a family lived here, with a father who smoked a pipe in his study, a mother who made pie, and children who ran around screaming because they’d never had anything more to fear than their own shadows.

Madame B. slides a key out of her tight silver-streaked chignon at the base of her skull (which occurs to the Engineer to be a potential weapon-concealing location), and unlocks the chains, unsealing the doors, which she pushes open with surprising strength in her thin, frail-looking wrists.

“Welcome to the Red Room,” she says, grandly. Upon their blank looks, she narrows her eyes. “Are you aware of our work here?”

The Engineer can see the Soldier’s face out of the corner of her eye. “Yes,” she says, tonelessly. “It is a program, run by the KGB, which trains young orphaned girls to become highly-skilled operatives and assassins, in order to further the Soviet cause.”

Madame B. smiles. “Yes. Yes, it is. Our work here is important, as is yours, of course. But we would like your assistance, even your wisdom, with the program while you are with us.”

The Soldier nods. “As my companion already said, we serve at your pleasure.”

“Lovely. We have a new batch of girls here that need to be trained. While our usual… instructors are available to us, we have considered a potential alternative. We believe that it would beneficial for the girls to learn from the two of you and your expertise. You both are, after all, the best in our world.”

Madame B. nods at one of the attendants, a young woman in grey, drab ensemble standing up against the wall like a shadow that doesn’t want to be seen. The woman’s face is drawn and tired, with dark circles under her eyes, as if she hasn’t slept in weeks.

In this place, the Engineer guesses she hasn’t.

“She will bring the girls for you to survey,” Madame B. explains. “We trust your… professional opinion in these matters.” Her eyes drift to the Soldier’s. “Especially yours, _Soldat_ , considering how you have transformed your companion.”

Both of them tense like taut piano wire.

“Much of it is a credit to her,” the Soldier chooses to say.

Madame B. smiles. “Yes, I suppose it is. But don’t diminish your role, either. The two of you will be good for these girls. In fact, they could become the greatest the Red Room has ever seen, and it will all be thanks to you.”

Like a revolving assembly line, the girls trail out of a door, their hair in two braids, wearing identical white tanks, black shorts, white socks and black sneakers. The girls don’t look older than seven, their eyes dull, like the spirit had already been beaten out of them, with their shoulders squared and straight, their chins up but not defiant, and their hands tucked behind their back.

They stop in a uniform line in front of the Madame B, the Engineer and the Soldier. Madame B. claps her hands together and approaches them.

“Good morning,” she greets, sweetly.

“Good morning, Madame B.,” the girls intone collectively.

“I would like to introduce all of you to our guests.” Madame B. eyes them, carefully. “Can anyone take a guess as to who they are?”

Nervousness flickers in their eyes, their jaws twitching as if they’d like very much to look at their feet instead, if they weren’t sure it would earn them a blow to the face, if Madame B. was particularly kind that day.

The Engineer doesn’t need to know Madame B. intimately to know what she is capable of, what she is willing to do for her country, for her great cause. Everyone – all men, women and even children – in their world are capable of the same cruelty and violence.

As much as she would like to say differently, even she is capable of it, even the Soldier is capable of it.

But there is one brave girl, who takes a step forward. She has dark red hair, the colour of pomegranate pulp, tied in two neat braids hanging over her shoulders.

Madame B. smiles. “Natalia?”

The girl respectfully nods at Madame B., before turning to the Engineer and Soldier. 

“They are the _Zimniy Soldát_ and the _Inzhener_ ,” Natalia says, steadily.

Her eyes don’t stray from Madame B., like she’s unafraid, even if she knows all the terrible things that can happen to her in these walls.

Madame B. smiles. Natalia is clearly one of her favourites.

“Correct, Natalia. You are always so clever. Now, can you tell me why they are here?”

Natalia’s face doesn’t betray her contemplation, but after a moment, she speaks. “They are here to serve the Soviet cause.”

_Almost but not quite._

“That they are,” Madame B. says.

It suits her to think that the Soviets own them, even if HYDRA’s shadow looms high and heavy over all of them.

“They will also be assisting us in our education of you. They are, after all, the best of the best.” Madame B. bends forward, threading her fingers together in front of her. “Now, why don’t we give them a little demonstration, hm? Let them see what you’ve learnt, what they will be working with?” She looks at them, expectantly. “Would anyone like to volunteer?”

A young blonde girl steps up.

Madame B. beams. “Thank you, Yelena. Do you have a partner?”

Natalia sidles forward.

“Wonderful,” Madame B. exclaims, gleefully. “This will be quite the demonstration.” She turns to the Engineer and the Soldier. “Natalia and Yelena are two of our best recruits.” She explains.

Both of them nod.

“Begin,” Madame B. orders.

The two girls step forward, quite a bit away from the line of their companions, and face off against each other. The Engineer takes notice of how Yelena’s face turns harsh, angry, as if there’s nothing better she’d like than to bloody her knuckles on Natalia’s face. By contrast, Natalia looks peaceful, lazy, as if this is old news to her, as if her win is already a guarantee.

If she wasn’t certain the commander would hear of it, the Engineer would smile.

Yelena charges at Natalia, but she ducks the blow, sweeping the girl’s legs out from underneath her. Before she hits the ground, Yelena grapples for Natalia’s shoulders, anchoring herself up and throwing Natalia down at the same time. But Natalia recovers quickly, flipping back onto her feet. Yelena strikes out, but Natalia blocks it. Yelena strikes out again and again until she’s forcing Natalia back, but the Engineer can see how tired it makes her, her arms trembling with ever blow she has to withdraw.

There are fifty-four ways that she comes up with that could land the little blonde girl on her back on the ground, her head ringing and her body aching, but with no permanent damage to impede functionality in the future.

She’s curious as to which one Natalia will choose.

Natalia is seamless, though. She simply waits until that trembling in Yelena’s wrists becomes too much for her to bear, and her breathing turns shallow. She dips forwards just a little, but it’s enough for Natalia to land a series of blows, with her fists and sharp elbow, on Yelena, until she’s stumbling back and hitting the ground, clutching at her stomach and groaning.

“Good work, Natalia!” Madame B. turns to them. “She will be your best. I am sure of it.”

_I can see that._

Natalia stares at them, for a brief moment, as if she’s trying to peel them apart, see what they look like on the inside.

The Engineer raises an eyebrow.

Natalia looks away.

* * *

_Paris, France_

“You know what to do?” the Soldier clarifies.

The Engineer sighs. “Yes, I know. This isn’t my first mission doing this sort of thing. Stop stressing,” she scolds.

The Soldier sighs. “I can’t help myself.”

The Engineer folds her arms across her chest. “Because you don’t think I’m capable?”

“No,” the Soldier snorts (it speaks to the character of the Soviets and the time he has spent out of his cryo chamber that he can do things like that, show sentiment, and immediately not seize up like he’s about to be shot). “Because this type of mission puts you in a vulnerable position.”

The Engineer raises an eyebrow. “And you think I’ll be compromised?”

“No,” he snaps. “I am concerned for your safety.”

The Engineer softens. “I’ve done this before,” she reminds him.

“I’m aware,” he says, coldly. “That doesn’t mean anything, though. Just because we’re good at what we do doesn’t mean we are invincible.”

“I know that.” Her voice gentles. She takes a brave step forward, an invisible thread pulling them closer to each other. She places a hand on his cheek, the heel of her palm scraping against his stubble. “I can take care of myself,” she insists.

For a long, terrible second, the Engineer’s breath catches in her throat and she fears he’ll push her away; instead, he covers her hand with his, and it feels almost religious, standing here in a dimly-lit motel room, their hands linked together, like they’re twin stars, orbiting each other.

He grips her hand and pulls it away from his face, the moment snapping like a taut wire.

* * *

He sits at the bar alone, nursing a tumbler of scotch, the Permanent Representative of France to the United Nations. She looks around, not a bodyguard or security personnel to be seen in sight. She spots the Soldier sitting on his lonesome in a quiet booth in the corner, a glass of something alcoholic in front of him that she knows he won’t touch, even if it won’t actually do anything to either of him. He inclines her head, the careful, steady look in his eyes filling her with a strange, bold rush that makes her feel like she can do anything.

Anxiety is not conducive to competent mission performance. 

She takes a deep breath and saunters forward, her hips swaying, until she’s leaning against the bar counter, stretching out beside the diplomat. She puts herself on display, curving her body in the air that makes her arse stick out, the hem of her dress stretching up against her thighs, her elbows propped up on the counter.

She smiles at the bartender, feeling the diplomat’s eyes on her.

“Je prends un verre de rosé, s’il vous plait.”

The bartender nods at her, giving her a small grin. “Bien sûr, mademoiselle.”

“You speak wonderful French,” the diplomat comments in English.

She turns to him, slowly, letting the grin turn hot as she does so. “Bold of you to assume that I wouldn’t be able to.”

The diplomat laughs. “Forgive me, miss, but you don’t seem the most French.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’m curious to know what you consider French?”

“I fear I’ve offended you,” the diplomat teases.

“No, no,” she says, not so quickly that he’ll become suspicious but not so slow that he actually thinks he’s offended her and loses interest. “You intrigue me.”

The diplomat grins. “Théo. Théo Chaudet.”

“Aline. Aline Métrailler.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Aline.” Théo grins. “Are you new to Paris? Just visiting?”

“Just visiting,” she replies. “I live in Lyon.”

“But not from there originally,” Théo pushes.

Her lips twitch. “You haven’t let that go, have you?”

Théo gives her a lazy, appreciative look. “I’m persistent.”

“I can see that.”

The bartender brings along her rosé, which she pretends to sip at, while chatting with Théo, who puts a hand on her bare knee as soon as he thinks it won’t result with her drink in his face. It doesn’t take them long to go from there to his hotel room above, that overlooks the Seine. It’s a lovely room, all cream carpets and dark furniture, and a bottle of champagne cooling in a full ice bucket. But she isn’t here to enjoy the furniture, and he didn’t bring her up here to get drunk on champagne.

He pushes her down unceremoniously onto the giant mattress, splaying her thighs out, with her dress rolled up somewhere around her waist. He doesn’t spare a moment to even remove it, instead tearing aside her underwear and shoving two thick fingers up inside her to stretch her for his cock. She isn’t wet by any means, and it stings like hell, an ache blossoming in her lower back. She moans, pretending like she loves it, loves everything he’s doing to her, like he’s the best lover she’s ever had. The sting gives away soon, but it’s not pleasant by any means.

He fists his cock, without even removing his slacks, and slides a condom down the length of him. He looks at her like an animal, like she’s something for him to own and wreck and leave in ruins, and her fingers clench in the bedsheets before she can do something stupid and short-sighted like snap his neck then and there. He takes it to mean that she’s so overcome with pleasure that she needs something to do with her hands; otherwise, she’ll go crazy.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, clutching at the headboard in front of him, rutting like an animal between her thighs. “What a sweet fucking pussy.”

“Yeah?” she says, breathlessly. “You like that?”

“Yeah, I fucking love it. And you love it too, don’t you? You fucking love my cock. It’s the best you’ve ever had, isn’t it? Say it,” he growls.

She turns her head to the side, pretending like his cock is making her thrash around like a wounded fish.

“Yes,” she moans, high-pitched and whining. “Your cock is the best I’ve ever had.”

Théo’s grip tightens on her hip and he pulls out of her, his cock wet and hard and tilted in her direction. Somehow, she knows exactly what he’s going to, but the suddenness of him turning her onto his stomach like a sack of potatoes, like some inanimate meat sack for his use, still manages to knock the breath out of her, even for just a moment, much to her distaste.

He pulls her knees up, his hand fisting in her hair, like he’s about to tear clumps of it out, and pushing her head down into the pillow. For a moment, she can’t see past everything winding tight around her, pulling her universe in so close that she can’t breathe, and her chest hurts like someone’s carved her thorax out with a soup spoon.

Finally, Théo takes mercy on her and turns her back around, so that she’s facing the ceiling, and she finally discovers the existence of her heart and lungs.

“How are you doing, baby?” he pants, still thrusting hard.

“Great.” Her voice comes out like the rasp of a dragging chain. “I’m doing great. It feels so good. Please, _don’t stop_.” She fakes a cry of pleasure, clutching at his shoulders, leaving impressions of her nails in his skin.

He grips her wrists and pins them above her head. 

The blood is hot in her face; she is dizzy, her breath stunted and quick, and she goes tight-limbed, like taut piano wire, unable to move.

She doesn’t like this.

Théo either doesn’t see this in his lust, or sees but doesn’t care, still fucking her through the mattress, like she’s a blow-up doll, holding her arms and legs down with his big, deft hands and thickset chest.

“Wait, Théo,” she begins, hesitantly. “Something’s wrong; I think we’d better stop.”

Théo grunts, but doesn’t pay much attention to her.

“Théo, stop. I don’t like this anymore.”

He wraps one of his hands around her soft throat, and the other cracks against her arse, which stings like hell and makes her throat clench.

“Théo, stop. _Stop_.”

Théo stares down at her, his eyes dark, bleeding into the backdrop of his face, his expression distorted and thin.

“ _Stop_. I don’t want this. _Stop_. _Stop_.”

She’s a dead butterfly tacked to his display case and she can’t escape, because her escape, her freedom, her existence is now in his hands.

She thinks he may very well kill her now.

But then, the Soldier puts a knife in his neck and opens up his throat. The blood spills out, covering her in a thick splatter of red, all over her eyes and mouth and neck and breasts, as the target bleeds out, his eyes going pale and numb.

The Soldier throws his corpse aside with a disgusted sound. When he looks over her, the dark bruises on her wrists and thighs and hips, his face goes unbearably soft.

He reaches for her, but stops short.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, in a low, rushed voice, like he’s unsure of his own shadow.

She nods, vaguely, the white noise in her ears too compelling to turn away from.

He lifts her up, carefully, like she’s precious to him, and carries her to the bathroom, where he places her on the edge of the wide bathtub, and climbs in, turning the water on. She doesn’t quite register what’s happening, but she can see him take a towel and wipe the blood and sweat and revulsion from her skin, slowly, methodically, until she’s clean, still subsumed in her muzzy exhaustion.

“I froze.” Her hands settle on her thighs. “I froze. I don’t know… I don’t know why I froze, but I froze. I shouldn’t have frozen.”

The Solder is still, kneeling in the porcelain tub, ankle deep in dirty water.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, slowly.

“I’m supposed to be more. I’m supposed to be better. I froze. I shouldn’t have frozen,” she mutters.

“Listen to me.” He grips her jaw, turns her to face him. “ _Gayetchka_ , listen to me. This is not your fault. You are not weak; you are not incapable.”

“I needed you to save me,” she rasps. “I should’ve been able to save myself.”

“It is not weakness for me to save you,” he insists. “It’s what we do for each other, in this life we have. That is not wrong and that is not weak. I would save you every time, and you would save me every time. _You are not weak_.”

She nods, the exhaustion flowing and ebbing. He wraps a towel around her, and she holds onto him, climbing out of the tub. He finds her different clothes and holds her hands as she slips into a dress, tying it up behind her, his eyes not straying from hers.

She gives in, then, and leans in, pressing her mouth against his, just for a fraction of a second, before pulling away, touching his cheekbone with her fingertips, and it feels like they’re the only two people in this universe.

It feels right, absolute in a way that can’t be compared.

She gives the corpse a savage little kick in the stomach before driving her six-inch heel down into his penis.

Now, this feels just.

* * *

_Moscow Oblast, Russia_

“What are you doing?” the Soldier asks, coming out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel against his long hair.

“Making weapons,” she hums, sitting on the edge of her bed.

Their lodgings at the Red Room Academy is leagues better than anything they had at the commander’s base. Here, they get a room to themselves, with an attached, albeit crude and little bathroom, twin beds and a heater to keep them warm in the Russian winters.

The Soldier uses it more than she does, and she doesn’t mind when the room gets thick and sweltering and the sweat drips down her neck because she knows what he’s thinking of when he switches the heater on, and she doesn’t want that for him.

The Soldier sighs. “It may be a while before we are sent out on another mission,” he reminds her.

“Does that matter?” she questions. “Our weapons should be functional if and when we are dispatched.”

The Soldier softens. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He takes a seat on his twin bed. “What are you making?”

“A device that emits a high-frequency electrostatic charge, around thirty-thousand volts. It can destroy every system run on electricity within a five-mile radius. I can turn down the voltage and if I can plant it on a target, it’ll electrocute him too.”

“Sounds useful,” the Soldier offers.

The Engineer’s lips twitch. “I hope so. I’ll make a launcher for your arm.” She looks up and deliberately stares into his eyes, rather than letting her eyes wander to where his chest is bare and gleaming, right within her line of sight. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now?” she says, almost helplessly.

The KGB doesn’t much care what they do, as long as they kill the people they want dead, and they train their girls into killers like them; but the Engineer isn’t used to so much choice within her reach.

It makes her skin crawl.

The Soldier stands and stretches. “I don’t have much of an idea either,” he muses. “I thought we might train; there is still some time before they will bring the girls in for their session with us.”

The Engineer nods, a knot loosening in her chest. That is a viable option.

“Let me have a shower first,” she tells him. “Then I’ll join you?”

The Soldier inclines his head, and she makes her way into the bathroom, shedding her clothes as she steps into the shower stall. She leans her forehead against the tiled wall, ignoring the way the pain flares up hot in her chest when the hot water patters down on her skin like glass.

She doubts she’ll ever get used to not being washed down with a hose like an animal.

She hears footsteps behind her.

She frowns.

“Soldat?” she calls out, because there’s no one else it could be.

A body crowds her against the wall, naked. He smells like lust and anger and desperation, and it makes her stomach curdle.

“Shut up,” he warns, the edge of a knife poking into her neck. “Do your duty, Engineer.”

She straightens. He’s hard. He grunts, rubbing up against her. His hand grips at her hip, while another goes around her to grope at her breasts.

“HYDRA has maintained you well,” he comments. “You’ll be a good fuck.”

_No. No, I won’t._

First, she gets rid of the knife. Her hand lunges up and grips his armed wrist, squeezing until she hears the bone break. He shouts in pain and drops the knife. She elbows him hard, and hears his rib crack. She curls a hand around the back of his neck and swings him around so that she can face him, his back pinned against the porcelain-tiled wall, by the hand on his throat. He’s young, in his early twenties like her, with hair shorn close to his head and tattoos crawling up both arms. She slams her fist into his face, his head cracking against the tile.

She smells blood, but head wounds bleed a lot and he isn’t in real danger.

Not yet, at least.

She plants her foot on his chest, pressing forward until his sternum pops under the pressure. He cries out in pain. She grabs him by the shoulder and throws him down onto the ground, and he skids across the tile. His head lolls, blood matting his face and hair, mumbling something that sounds like him begging.

_Good. I want you to beg._

Her vision is red, and she sees Théo’s face everywhere and it helps when she takes out the anger on his body, beating into her assaulter until there isn’t a splatter of blood that doesn’t cover him. Finally, she grabs him by the arms and hefts him up, loath to even touch him, carrying him over her shoulders.

When she steps back into the room, the Soldat enters. His eyes flicker with surprise, when she drops him on the ground between them.

“Do I want to know what happened?” he asks, his voice a little dry.

She blinks. “I didn’t freeze this time.”

His eyes dawn with realisation and his features tightens with anger, a far cry from the cold determination that colours his face during mission – he only ever gets angry, miserable, afraid, happy when it involves her.

“Is he dead?” he asks.

She remembers that he once told her to kill the commander if she feared his tampering of her. She remembers that he put a knife in the throat of a target who was raping her (there is no other word for it, even if she belongs to HYDRA first, even if she exists at their will, and it was her mission) – he _should’ve_ obeyed orders; he should’ve let her rot; he _should’ve_ put the mission first; that’s what the commander, what HYDRA, what the Red Room and the KGB would have wanted from him. But he proved that he would put himself between her and anything that came for her.

 _I would save you every time, and you would save me every time_ , he said.

No, he won’t shed any tears over this KGB agent she killed.

He won’t ever be her enemy.

“I don’t know,” she replies.

The Soldier kneels by the body and presses two fingers to the pulse in his throat. He reels back after a moment and stands, his face careful and measured.

“He’s dead,” he reassures, an almost pleased lilt to his voice.

The Engineer nods. She feels nothing. “Shall I take him to the Chairman?”

“That would be best.” He nods. “I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to,” she says, quickly. “I did this. Not you.”

The Soldier shakes his head, a soft look to him. “Haven’t you realised yet? I would save you every time.”

The breath twists out of her like it’s the last one. “I don’t want you to do this for me again,” she whispers, roughly. “Not again. Please don’t make me live with it again.”

The Soldier grips her shoulder. The touch goes right to her bones.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he says, steadily.

She thinks she would’ve believed anything from him in that moment.

* * *

The Chairman stares at the corpse with a grim look.

“How did this happen?” he asks, coldly.

“I was washing,” she tips her chin up. “and he attempted to accost me. So, I dealt with him.”

The Chairman stares at her, angrily. “He was a good soldier.”

The Engineer raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

It’s foolish, she knows. Their goodwill could evaporate whenever they choose, but she can’t keep her tongue still.

“It is within my system protocols to protect and ensure functional and structural integrity,” she reminds him, firmly. “I perceived a threat to my continued operational capacity, and I dealt with that threat.”

The Chairman sinks back into his chair.

“If he had damaged me, I would have lowered in value, to you and to HYDRA. You will find hundreds of foot soldiers, but there will never again be one of us. We are inimitable.”

The Chairman grits his teeth. “You are right,” he sighs. “Very well; you may leave. The body will be disposed of.”

The Engineer nods and she and the Soldier leave the Chairman’s office, striding with a purpose until they reach their room, and shutting the door behind them. She leans against the door and sinks down onto the ground, the knot loosening in her chest.

The Soldier kneels in front of her.

“You did well,” he says, gently.

She looks up at him, helplessly. “Are you sure?”

“He didn’t punish us, so I would say yes.”

She wraps her arms around her legs, burying her face in her knees.

“You saved yourself, remember?”

She nods. _I did. I saved myself._

“Be brave, _gayetchka._ You did so well. You were strong.” He touches her hair; it’s just a brush of his fingers, but she has never felt warmer in her life.

She nods.

He has never lied to her.

* * *

The Soldier steps in front of the line of girls.

“We have seen two of you demonstrate your skills for us,” he begins. “But now we will see what all of you are capable of. You have one task: throw me down to the ground. If you hit the ground instead, you are out.”

The Engineer watches from her perch in the rafters.

Natalia’s eyes flicker upward and fixate on her for a brief moment, before turning back to the Soldier.

The Engineer smiles to herself. She is the only one to have spotted her. The others are less observant.

“Begin.”

One by one, they all step forward.

The Engineer has already memorised their names: Ava Orlova, Stefanya Melnikova, Ninotchka Petukhova, Galina Tsarfin, Yelena Belova and finally, Natalia Romanova.

Ava goes first. She punches out first, but the Soldier catches her fist in his flesh hand and pushes back, sending her stumbling. She tries again, but fails, and this time, the Soldier’s shove back is enough to send her tripping over her feet and landing on the ground. The Soldier’s eyes run over her humbled body to the next girl, Stefanya, who squares her shoulders.

One by one, they all go the same way. The Soldier is a force of nature that no six-year-old is capable of taking down. Even she had struggled, well into her teenage years, having to rely on her wits more than her skill, until finally her newly acquired abilities had made things easier. She was twelve the first time she took him down, and she had watched him, for days, until she found a weak spot to take advantage of and she had knocked him to the ground with the sharp end of her screwdriver an inch away from the soft underside of the throat.

He would never have said it to her (she doubts he was even capable of it then) but he had been proud of her – somehow, she just knew it.

Natalia comes up last, giving the Soldier a careful and weighty stare. A fist flies out and for a moment, the Engineer is disappointed that her favourite is going the same way of her companions, but she soon realises that the girl is feinting and feinting well. The fist comes nowhere near the Soldier and instead Natalia dives down, between the Soldier’s legs, and drives her sharp, pointed elbow into the base of the Soldier’s spine, latching onto the trigger point, which makes him double over, much to her surprise.

But he doesn’t fall, the veritable stone wall that he is. Instead, he turns around and picks Natalia up like a sack of potatoes and drops her back on the ground, not so hard that she’d break a bone, but enough that it definitely wounded her pride, if the humiliated flush on her face is anything to go by. She climbs to feet primly and stalks back to the line of girls, taking her place at the end.

The Soldier gives them an unfathomable stare. “Poor work,” he simply says, in that miserable tone of voice that has them wanting to bury themselves in the mud, just to escape his thousand-yard stare. “You are incompetent.”

Finally, taking pity on the girls, the Engineer climbs to her feet on top of the beam and jumps down, landing on the Soldier’s shoulders, with her thighs wrapped around his neck. She tightens and twists, sending her whole body forward, and it knocks him off balance, as she wanted to. But he’s quick and he saw her coming, and he throws her off. One palm hits the ground before she springs off and landing on her feet facing him.

“Better.”

She hears the playful taunt in his voice and bristles.

Their blows exchange at a speed too rapid for anyone to split and dissect, and they know each other perhaps too well, since neither of them manage to land a blow on each other. Finally, the Engineer grows weary of this dance, climbing on top of him and folding her legs around his neck in an uncompromising hold. This time, when she twists her body, he loses his balance, but with his hand gripping her hips, he pulls her down as well when he goes.

She lands, straddling him, with one hand gripping his throat, ripe to break his neck with a single twist of her wrist, the other pinning his flesh arm above his head, while his metal arm aims the edge of his knife against her kidney.

She stares down at him for a moment, her eyes needle-sharp, and they move in sync, like stars colliding, as they climb to their feet, never taking their eyes off each other. Finally, the moment ends and breaks, and the Soldier finally returns his attention to the girls, while she takes a step back.

“I am much larger than you. Many of your enemies will also be larger than you,” the Soldier warns. “It will be very difficult to take your enemies down with brute strength. You must rely on wit and timing instead, as the Engineer did. If not, you will risk your cause and your life. Understood?”

“Yes, _Soldat_ ,” the girls intone.

“Good. Now, again.”

* * *

**1991**

“I want to take her under our wing,” she declares.

The Soldier jolts. He stares at her for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

“The girl, Natalia. I think she has potential.” She shrugs. “I don’t think it would be a bad idea if we trained her personally.”

The Soldier frowns. “Where’s this coming from?”

“She seems… receptive, and she’s clever,” the Engineer points out. “She spots patterns, and she’s adaptable. She will make a good soldier for the Soviets, but if they allow it, we might be able to give her more one-on-one training.”

“What makes you think they’d allow it?”

“Well, they seem quite accommodating of us, and us training the girl would only serve them in the future. But I won’t broach the subject with the Chairman or Madame B. without your approval.”

The Soldier huffs. “You really want this, don’t you?”

“I just think we could teach her a lot that the Red Room isn’t capable of,” she says, simply.

The Soldier stares at her for a moment, before sighing. “Fine. I don’t believe I could refuse you, not when you seem so committed to the prospect. But the Chairmen and Headmistress may deny you,” he warns.

The Engineer smiles. _We’ll see._

* * *

“I see great things in Natalia’s future,” she murmurs to the headmistress. “I would like very much, if it is amenable to you, to take her under my wing.”

The headmistress’ face briefly betrays her surprise before it clears away of any emotion. “If you feel that would be best, I would hate to decline your generous offer. But I would not want to cause disorder if Natalia were given special treatment, nor would I want any deterioration in the training of the other novices. They are important to us as well. Natalia is merely a cog in the machine.”

The Engineer blinks. “This would not be special treatment,” she says, cautiously. “We would not be soft with her; this would be a reward for her diligence and an expectation of her continued effort. And our training of the other girls would not degenerate in any way.”

Madame B. mulls over it for a while. “Very well. I have no objections. I assume you have acquired the Chairman’s permission?”

The Engineer nods, stiffly.

“Then, I suppose all that is left is to inform Natalia of her new duties.”

* * *

_Managua, Nicaragua_

“They said you asked for me,” Natalia broaches with them, carefully, on their way to their first mission together.

The Soldier and the Engineer exchange a look.

“We did,” she replies, carefully.

“Why?” Natalia demands, before clearly realising that she may have overstepped, immediately turning submissive, lowering her head. “I apologise. It is not my place to question you-”

“You shouldn’t,” the Engineer says, sternly. “But only because it will get you in trouble one day.” She pauses. “You have talent. You should nurture that talent, and we will do our part.”

Natalia stares at them, sceptically, as if she can’t quite believe their motivations, but has no other choice, curling into the corner of their transport.

At the next set of traffic lights, they jump out, hefting duffle bags over their shoulders, and make for the next street, where a dimly-lit motel looms in front of them.

“This is where we are staying?” Natalia asks, sceptically, her eyes round and wide.

“Yes, the life of an operative is very rarely glamourous, as you will soon learn,” the Engineer says, breezily. “And it matters not; we will not be here long enough that you will be able to make our cockroach-infested room home.”

“Cockroaches?” Natalia immediately baulks, taking a step back.

The Engineer resists the urge to laugh, instead giving the girl a needle-sharp look. “If you play nicely, maybe they won’t eat you.”

Natalia glares at her, but remains silent. The Soldier raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs. He shakes his head and proceeds into the dark room, switching on the lights. They place their bags down in one corner.

“Do you understand the mission?” the Engineer asks Natalia, who immediately stands at attention, nodding stiffly.

“We are required to terminate Enrique Bermúdez, the commander of the Nicaraguan Contras,” she says, tonelessly.

The Engineer rolls on her sleek black leather gloves, while the Soldier readies their weapons. “While it is not required to understand the political justifications of our missions, it may be necessary for you to always possess some inherent knowledge of the climate, no matter where in the world you may be, even if it’s simply for making polite conversation with civilians so as to maintain your cover. That being said, can you understand why the KGB would want the removal of our target?”

Natalia mulls it over, biting her lower lip. “He is the leader of the Nicaraguan Contras,” she begins, tentatively.

“Yes,” she nods.

“The Soviet Union is supporting Nicaragua’s Sandinista coalition government, and the target is directly opposing Russia’s chosen champion in this conflict?” Natalia tries.

The Engineer nods, pleased. “Yes. That seems like the most appropriate and logical justification for this mission. Of course, you should not linger on such things – it is not our purpose in life to question what our cause wants, Natalia. We are knives in the dark, shadows for whatever they need us for.” She catches the Soldier’s surprised look (he wasn’t expecting for her to echo his words, words that still don’t settle in her bones easily). “But your knowledge is excellent, well above what civilians will expect from someone your age. So, be mindful. Excessive intelligence draws attention, and not always the good kind.”

She remembers the Russian thugs in 1979, how they had looked at her like she was ugly and wrong, like she should know her place and they were willing to teach her where she should be.

She remembers how quickly they turned into corpses.

 _Men can be weak_ , she thinks.

But not the Soldier.

The Soldier isn’t weak at all.

Natalia nods, dutifully. “May I ask how we will proceed with this mission?”

The Soldier and her exchange a look. He nods.

“We have sent out covert messages to the target, arranging a meeting at Managua’s InterContinental Hotel.”

Natalia frowns. “We’re meeting with him?” she asks, sceptically.

“No,” the Soldier exhales. “We’re luring him to a meeting with someone who won’t show up.”

Natalia’s eyes dawn with realisation. “So, he’d be falling into a trap?”

“Marginally,” the Soldier corrects. “The parking lot will be empty. It has better range and requires less effort than to sneak into the actual hotel undetected.”

Natalia nods. “Will you be taking me with you?”

The Soldier looks at her, expectantly, and the _well, this was your great idea, you deal with it_ goes unsaid.

She rolls her eyes.

“Yes,” she says, confidently. “Yes, you should come with us.”

She was nine when she went with the Soldier on a mission for the first time. Natalia is much younger than her. She doesn’t know if this is a blessing or a curse, to bring her with them so early in her life; she doesn’t know if it’ll get her accustomed to the life she will have, or irreparably and irrevocably change her in a terrible way, but the Red Room thought it wise and they will, of course, carry their wishes out.

“Do I get a weapon?” Natalia asks, belligerently, tipping her chin up.

The Engineer raises an eyebrow. “Do you _need_ a weapon?”

“How old were you when you started carrying a weapon?”

The Engineer thinks of the screwdriver strapped to her thigh, the one that she hasn’t stopped carrying since she was four.

“What would you like to carry?” she asks, curiously.

“A knife.”

“Do you know how to _use_ a knife?”

Natalia gives her an almost offended look. “I can get by.”

The Engineer swallows down her smile. She turns to the Soldier. “Do you have a knife that our companion can use?”

The Soldier raises an eyebrow and flicks his finger, a thin, small blade appearing from his hip. He stalks over and hands it to Natalia, who barely comes up to his waist. He stares down at her, eyes sickle-sharp.

“I hope you won’t consider some unfortunate action with this,” he says, plainly.

Natalia cocks her head, pretending like she doesn’t understand what he’s getting at. “What do you mean?”

A smile flickers on his face, just a bare, fleeting quirk of the corners of his mouth, and it disappears just as quickly as it forms.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

* * *

“Stay behind us,” the Soldier orders. “Don’t say a word; don’t move; don’t breathe; don’t draw any attention to yourself whatsoever. As far as anyone is concerned, you do not exist. Understood?”

Natalia nods, sharply, and slinks back against shadows, blending into the darkness.

The Soldier turns to her, while she’s busy loading her magazine.

“Is it your turn or my turn?” he asks, plainly.

They’ve been reduced to alternating on missions, so that one person doesn’t do all the work, and their superiors can’t point the finger at one particular person.

It distributes the work and effort evenly; it’s good for favourable mission outcomes; it increases productivity and efficiency, while minimising negligence and failure.

It’s smart, but they both know they’re doing it for the wrong reasons.

It’s a silent war between them: who can carry the most burden?

“It’s my turn,” she declares, remembering the colossal catastrophe that was Paris in 1990.

The Soldier eyes her, carefully. “Are you sure?”

“Are you still underestimating me after twelve years?” she retorts.

The Soldier sighs. “Fine. Just… be quick about it,” he mutters.

The Engineer rolls her eyes and cocks her gun. The target storms out of the hotel, red-faced and incensed, eyes blood-shot from the alcohol he must have downed, while waiting and waiting at the bar for someone who would never have shown. He makes his way to his car, parked in a lone corner of the lot.

The Engineer raises her gun and fires. The bullet lodges in his back and the target hits the ground, on his knees.

She has to make it look like it could have been any run-of-the-mill mercenary who made the shot; she can’t be too skilled, too perfect, or the wrong people would get suspicious, and they would no longer be ghosts; they would exist, and that was not a reality that would ever be allowed for them.

Somehow, the target gains enough strength to draw his own firearm, from inside his jacket pocket and fires wildly into the shadows, from where he believes the bullet came from.

The Soldier doubles over with a grunt, bleeding out from his shoulder. Her wrist burns and her lungs stop working, and she no longer cares about making this accident, about protecting their existence as shadows, as ghosts; she doesn’t care about anything beyond getting him out of here, getting him away from this man who just hurt him.

_I would save you every time, and you would save me every time._

She raises her gun and fires. The bullet gets the target right between the eyes and the target falls, landing on the ground as a corpse.

She takes a deep breath, satisfied.

She rounds on the Soldier, who’s clutching at the wall with one hand, while the other grips his bleeding shoulder. She reaches for him, one hand covering his bleeding shoulder, pressing down. She hears him grind down on his teeth, and resists the urge to brush his hair out of his eyes, run her thumb over his cheekbone, especially since they have very curious, green eyes staring at them from the wall.

“We need to get back to the hotel,” she says, lowly. “Before anyone can see you.”

The Soldier nods, stiffly. She drapes his uninjured arm over her shoulders, taking his weight as her own, which comes easily with her new strength. She turns back to Natalia, who is curled inwards, her arms wrapped around herself.

“Come, Natalia,” she says, sternly. “We are done here.”

* * *

She shoves the Soldier down onto the bed, despite his protests, and cuts open his armour at the shoulder to reveal the solid chunk of flesh caved inward where the bullet struck, still bleeding.

“I’ll be fine,” he bites out. “I’ll heal.”

“You will,” she agrees. “But there’s still a bullet inside you.”

“I need maintenance,” he grunts, making a move to sit up. “Assets need to protect functionality. It is within our protocols to-”

She hushes him and pushes him back down. “I’ll fix you up.” She gives him a weary smile. “I always do, don’t I?”

It’s dangerous, letting Natalia see this part of them, but when he’s lying in front of her with a bullet in his body and bleeding, she doesn’t really care anymore.

“Natalia,” she begins, lowly. “Come here. This is an important lesson for you.”

Natalia dutifully approaches the bed, where she’s sitting on the edge, a glass of water balanced on her thigh. She fishes out a little black plastic packet and drops it inside the glass, and within moments, the water starts to bubble.

“What-” Natalia hesitates. “What is that?”

“It’s called a flammable ration heater,” she explains. “It’s a water-activated exothermic chemical heater.”

Natalia’s face registers her confusion.

The Engineer sighs. “It contains finely powdered magnesium, alloyed with a small amount of iron, and table salt. When mixed with water, it will generate heat in an electron-transfer process called an oxidation-reduction reaction. Water oxidizes magnesium metal, and when the iron comes into contact with oxygen, it rusts and generates heat, which allows us to heat up things when we are in some shitty motel room in Nicaragua.”

“Like boiling water to sterilise tools?” Natalia guesses.

The Engineer nods, surprised and slightly proud. “Exactly.”

“You should be careful,” the Soldier mumbles, his eyes hazy and lidded and focused on Natalia. “If you allow her to talk, she won’t ever stop. I promise you.”

Natalia giggles a little and then looks surprised that she was even capable of such emotion. The Engineer rolls her eyes and fishes out a sleek, little knife out of her boot and drops it into the water. Once she lets it sit for five minutes, she pulls it out of the water. She leans down, tucking her hair behind her ear, as she surveys the wound.

“Luckily, he missed your brachial and subclavian veins,” she says, her voice clipped.

“I’m glad,” he mutters.

The Engineer pauses, raising the knife. “I’m going to take the bullet out now, okay,” she tells him, tentatively.

The Soldier gives her a reassuring look. She feels something brush her hand and she looks down to see her flesh hand gripping his.

“It’ll be fine,” he soothes. “You could never hurt me.”

The pain flares up hot in her wrist, under the black band she never takes off, and warmth curls into the spaces beneath her heart and between each rib.

She nods, firmly, and presses the edge of the knife blade against the wound. She lets the tip slide in slow, into the rent in his flesh, and bites back a flinch when she hears a grunt of pain that he desperately tries to hide, to protect her. She swallows down the urge to run her hand through his hair, or let him hold onto her for comfort, instead focusing on the push of the knife, until the tip grazes something slick and hard inside the muscle.

“Okay, I found it,” she says, triumphantly. “I found the bullet.”

The Soldier makes a hurt little noise when she starts digging for it, pulling it up out of the wound, before her fingers pluck it out of his skin. She throws it into some corner of the room and runs her hand over his hair, smoothing it back.

“It’s okay. It’s done,” she soothes. “I got it out.” She turns to Natalia, who is watching in pin-drop silence, curled inward. “Come here.”

Natalia approaches her, dutifully.

“I would like you to put pressure on his wound, while I find something to wrap him up in.”

“I’m fine,” he protests, weakly attempting to sit up.

“No,” she snaps, pushing him back down. “You’re not. But if you don’t let me wrap you up, then the wound will get infected and we will be worse off. So, you sit still, and you let us bandage you.”

The Soldier leans back, not quite pouting but petulant enough. “Fine,” he mutters.

“Press down on the wound,” she instructs Natalia, who nods and pushes down on the wound with her small palms.

She finds herself a makeshift cloth that she tears up in strips, and she makes her way back to the Soldier, taking Natalia’s place by the side of the bed. She wraps the wound up, creating a makeshift sling around his shoulder, even though it has healed some before she can tie it up. The Soldier grips his own shoulder and pulls himself to a seating position, grunting with the effort.

She turns to Natalia, who’s backed up against the wall like a deer caught in headlights. Her hands shake at her side, something she tries very hard to stop, judging by the tension in her wrists.

“You did well, Natalia,” she says, gently, shuffling back against the bed. “You were very strong. Strength is necessary in our line of work. You must be prepared for anything, including lugging a hundred-and-eighty-pound HYDRA operative, bleeding from a bullet wound in his shoulder, from a somewhat busy parking lot to a motel room two blocks over without anyone getting suspicious.”

Natalia swallows hard and stares at them. “I did not realise so much medical attention was required in our line of work. I was not… they have not taught me the necessary knowledge and skills for such eventualities.”

“Neither were we,” the Engineer explains. “But you’ll learn on the job.” She leans forward. “It is imperative that you protect asset functionality. If you bleed to death in some filthy little motel room in the middle of nowhere, you will hardly be useful to your organisation.”

Natalia nods, sharply, and looks down at her feet. “Can I do anything else?” she asks, earnestly, in an effort to help out in any way she can.

She wonders if the girl is trying to earn her place.

“Rest,” she says, remembering a plane ride where the Soldier had said the same words, in an effort to be kind to her. “You may not get this chance again until we reach Moscow Oblast, understood?”

Natalia bites her lip and doesn’t even blink an eye before settling down on the ground and curling into a ball. She extends her arms over her head, and the Engineer remembers Madame B. telling her of the handcuffs that bind the girls to their bedposts every night, like dogs that might run away if given the chance.

She looks down at the Soldier, who’s staring at her unfathomably.

“Should I tie her up?” she asks, concerned.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t want to,” she confesses.

The Soldier squeezes her hand. “Then, don’t.”

“We can’t be kind to her,” she points out. “You were never kind to me.”

“I resent that.”

“Well, you weren’t. You were stern with me. It built strength. If you had been kind to me, perhaps I may not have survived this long.”

The Soldier runs a thumb over her pulse point. “Keep your distance,” he advises. “She will grow strong on her own. You did.”

The Engineer nods. She leans in and carefully removes the bandage running out from under his shoulder. She runs her thumb over the smooth, unblemished skin, crusty and flaky with dried blood.

“You’ve healed,” she murmurs.

“You knew that would happen.” The Soldier fixes her eyes with his own. “You shouldn’t worry about me so much.”

“I would save you every time, and you would save me every time,” she says, solemnly. “Remember?”

The Soldier’s eyes have something open and nervous and fragile in them, something that makes her chest hurt fierce. “I hope I’ll always remember.”

Sometimes, she forgets. She forgets about the chair they drag him to and remove pieces of him until he’s only flesh and bone that they can make and remake according to their will.

If she ever gets a chance, she’ll pull it apart, piece by piece, with her bare hands.

“I hope you’ll always remember too.”

* * *

_Athens, Greece_

They’re sitting out in the hot sun, on the middle of some dirt road, parked off to the corner, once their engine blows out. The Soldat is seated inside, waiting for her instructions, while she works on the engine, aided by Natalia.

“ _Spasiba_ ,” she says, vaguely, taking a tool from her. She catches Natalia staring at her. “What is it?”

The girl looks down at her feet for a moment before lifting her chin. “You speak Russian like a native,” she says, firmly. “Are you?”

“A native?”

Natalia nods.

“No…” she frowns. “At least I don’t think I am. I may be. But I doubt it. I learnt Russian as I learnt all the other languages I know: from my handlers.”

“How long have you been with HYDRA?” Natalia asks, carefully.

She frowns. “My entire life. We have no other life, after all.” She pauses and slides out a little metal patch from her sleeve. She plants it down on the inside of an engine. There’s a short little hum and a loud crack, and the engine goes dead. She sighs, removing the patch. “Now, try the ignition again.”

The Soldier turns the key, long-sufferingly, and the engine whirrs to a start.

“See,” she says, smugly. “I told you it would work.”

The Soldier scowl and leans back into the driver’s seat, his face set in a grumpy frown. “Fine, I was clearly proven wrong. Now, hurry up and get inside. We need to have reached the city centre in the next two hours.”

The Engineer rolls her eyes and climbs to her feet.

“I will be a Black Widow one day,” Natalia declares, standing up as well.

The Engineer frowns and looks down at her, nodding. “Yes. You will be.”

“Widows bite.” Natalia stares at the projectiles bound to her wrists, meaningfully.

The Engineer can’t help but smile. “That they do. Shall I show you how to make one?”

Natalia nods. “If you would be amenable to the idea?”

The Engineer mulls it over. “Well, we did agree to take over your training, and it _should_ include some sort of technical understanding as well. I think we will start small and work our way up to these.” She shakes out her wrist.

Natalia bites back a pleased smile but her face practically radiates smugness. “Thank you.”

The Soldier pokes his head out of the open car window. “If you two are quite done, we have one hour and fifty-two minutes to get to the city centre, yet we still haven’t gotten on the road.”

The Engineer rolls her eyes. “Come on, or he might start blowing blood vessels,” she mutters, closing the engine hood.

* * *

**1992**

“We have a very… sensitive mission for the two of you,” the Chairman says, kindly.

The Soldier and the Engineer exchange a look, a silent conversation passing between them.

“Just the two of us,” she clarifies.

The Chairman and Madame B. exchange a look of their own.

“Yes, we believe Natalia would only be a liability in this mission, so she will be staying with us.”

The Engineer’s hackles rise. “What are the mission parameters?” she asks, curiously, with only a hint of suspicion.

The Chairman slides a file across his desk over to her. The Engineer snatches it up to peruse her way through.

“Piotr Jaroszewicz and his wife, Alicja Solska. Jaroszewicz was the Prime Minister of Poland from 1970 to 1980. He has not… made us happy,” he hedges. “Perhaps you can take care of that for us.”

“The wife too?”

“Yes. There should be no witnesses.” The Chairman and Madame B. exchange another one of those suspicious looks. “There is one other thing. We have a few requirements for this particular mission.”

The Engineer waits.

“It should look like it was done by amateurs, you understand,” he says, meaningfully.

The Engineer frowns. “As in, messy?”

“Yes, messy. And gruesome. Like an animal would’ve done it. This should be in the newspapers for months. We want them to linger on this. We don’t want them to forget so easily. Understand?”

The Engineer hesitates, looking at the Soldier. His blue-grey eyes betray his uncertainty as well, but he won’t ever voice it.

In this aspect, he’s much smarter than she is.

The Chairman gives them a cold stare, any good will from him evaporating in an instant. “Is there a problem?” he asks.

“We are, of course, at your service,” she begins, slowly, attempting to pacify him. “But we have a very specific skill set,” she reminds him. “No one will ever know it’s us because we are clean and meticulous with our work. We are not accustomed to making a mess in our missions. It goes against our protocols.”

The Chairman leans forward. “Well, we are telling you to _suspend_ your protocols and complete this mission for us, in whatever way _we_ want it to be completed,” he says, dangerously.

The Engineer tenses. “Of course,” she says, tersely.

The Chairman smiles, pleasantly. His eerie resemblance to the commander in this moment makes her want to claw under her nailbeds. He passes her another sheet of paper.

“This is how we would like you to complete this mission.”

The Engineer reads through the sheet and passes it to the Soldier. She hears his pulse throb painfully. He dislikes what they have proposed just as much as she does.

HYDRA would never have asked this of them, she realises.

She had been thinking of the Soviets as weak, middling versions of the monsters she was used to, but she had underestimated them, underestimated what depraved ideas they could come up and execute.

But she was wrong.

“If you would prefer _not_ to take this mission,” the Chairman smiles. “Well, I’m sure alternative options could be devised. Perhaps your contract with us should come to an end. We are, of course, happy to send you back to HYDRA. I am sure your commander would like to hear of your functional difficulties.”

It’s a thinly-veiled threat that makes her sick to her stomach.

She is not eager to bridge the gap between them and the commander anytime soon.

She looks at the Soldier through the curtain of her dark hair, but she sees something gentle in his gaze, just for her, comforting and sweet, and she caves under it, turning back to the Chairman with a new strength.

“We will complete the mission to your specifications,” she says, coldly, her voice brooking no doubt, no hesitation.

The Chairman grins, broadly. “Wonderful.” He claps his hands together. “Transportation will be made available for you as soon as you decide to leave.”

The Engineer and the Soldier nod and take that to be their dismissal. They pull away and leave the Chairman alone with Madame B., making their way back to their room.

This mission will require preparation.

* * *

_Arin, Warsaw, Poland_

She and the Soldier stare at the eleven-foot barbed wire fence enveloping the target’s villa.

“I know you’re going to try and climb this thing, so I’m going to have to stop you right now,” she tells him, quickly.

The Soldier folds his arms over his broad chest. “How else are we supposed to get inside?” he demands.

She gives him a withering look before pulling out a small, thin tube, much like lipstick casing, which she slowly rolls, activating a little latch on the base. A bolt of red, searing light darts out of the casing slicing through the wiring of the fence in a large circle until the cut-out splits away from the fence and she can pull it off herself, placing it quietly on the ground, so as to leave them undetected.

“I could’ve done that with my bare hands,” he points out.

“I know, but we have to be at least somewhat conspicuous here and you would’ve attracted the Rottweiler’s attention if you had used your hands. The last thing we need is an incessantly barking dog.”

The Soldier looks away, petulantly.

The Engineer sighs and leans into his body, gripping his face in her hands. “I’m sure you’ll get another chance very soon,” she soothes, pressing her fingers right in the bruises under his eyes.

The Soldier huffs. “I’ll be holding you to that,” he warns.

She laughs, low and sharp. “I look forward to it,” she teases.

This comes easy to her, letting herself enjoy the time she has with him. And she likes to think he enjoys it too.

He’s never said otherwise, and she knows he’s capable of many opinions.

She climbs through the rent in the fence, waiting for him to join her, and they pad along the dewy grass, which leaves wet, glistening streaks all over their black boots.

“Do you have the anaesthetic for the animal?” he asks her, warily, surveying the terrain for some variable they may not have considered during their preparations.

“Yes.” She digs into her pocket and pulls out a capped syringe, full of something yellow and cloudy. “Once I inject this into the animal, it will incapacitate it before it has a chance to warn the targets of our presence.”

“Good.” He nods. “This mission is intricate enough without adding any complications.”

Thankfully, they find the dog sleeping on the steps of the villa, arms and legs tucked underneath its great body. Their footsteps aren’t even footsteps as they approach the dog, but despite their best efforts, it hears them, blinking open one hazy eye. Before it can do anything more than just stare at them, the Soldier lunges forward and stabs the syringe into the soft underside of the dog’s throat.

The dog whines, quietly, but gives into the effect of the anaesthetic, eyes falling shut once more, and the heartbeat slowing down to near death.

“Husband or wife?” she asks, as she activates her jammer, pulling down the target’s communications and security systems down with nothing but a low mechanical whir.

“Husband,” he replies. “You take the wife.”

The Engineer nods, briskly. She has no preference in this mission; neither does he.

Both are exceptionally terrible choices, given their task at hand.

They creep through the villa, through the darkened corridors. The target is in his study, on the second floor, seated at his desk, with a book laid out in front of him, as he peruses through over the rim of thick reading glasses.

The Soldier nods to her and she pulls back, slipping back into the available shadows and making her way to the master bedroom, where the target’s wife lies sleeping.

She is an old woman, with dark grey hair and a withered, lined face, soft in sleep, which is why the Engineer has to ignore the bile rising in her throat, sour and bitter, as she pulls a hunting rifle off the wall and shoots the woman in the head.

 _There is no other choice_ , she reminds herself, as she watches the old woman’s blood spread out onto the pillow in a sickening stain. _They will send us back to HYDRA, back to him, if we fail._

HYDRA never tolerates failure.

HYDRA is very good at managing failure.

The Engineer still hasn’t forgotten the commander’s hand in her hair, his fingers crushing her throat.

_Remember, girl, you belong to us. You do not exist without us._

She takes a deep breath.

 _I belong to HYDRA,_ she repeats. _I do not exist without HYDRA._

It becomes easier to walk away then, to lift the corpse over her shoulders in preparation of what must come next and make her way to the study, where the target is already dead, still seating in his chair, with a belt wrapped around his throat, secured by an antique ice axe on the wall. 

“Can we go?” she asks, tersely, the air not settling well around her. “Did you get the documents from the safe?”

The Soldier nods. “I have them.” He frowns. “Are you alright?”

“I just…” she shakes her head, something unpleasant clawing under her nailbeds. “I want to leave. Can we leave?”

The Soldier gives in after a moment. “I have everything we need. We can go now.”

“Good,” she says, heavily. “Let’s go.”

They leave the corpses there, in a gruesome work of art, and once they’re back in the safety of their motel room, the Engineer stumbles her way to the bathroom, shut the door behind her and promptly throws up in the sink.

There’s white noise in her ears, but she hears the Soldier’s heavy footfalls behind the bathroom door and his voice calling out for her, alarmed, but she shakes her head, her tongue unwilling to make words.

She turns on the sink and washes her face, cleans it of the sweat and tears and vomit, even if her lungs are constricting, _seizing_ , until she can see black, supple spots in her vision. She shakes her head.

This is a weakness she won’t allow.

She’s already been weak enough.

“ _Gayetchka_?” she hears the Soldier call out.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she insists, the words coming out like a wracking sob, a wet, gurgling sound that she’s instantly ashamed and terrified of.

Her mouth is still sour and bitter, and her head is swimming, and there’s still bile knotting in her throat, and her pulse throbs painfully, and her chest hurts, and there’s gravel in her lungs, like they’re being grated and scraped against a cheese grater and tissue and membrane are slowly pared off, until she ceases to exist.

She forces herself to breathe. It’s an exhausting, formidable effort, but she finally manages to take slow, agonising, gulping breaths of air that make her _teeth_ ache.

Finally, her chest stops hurting and she pulls back her composure around her, like a veil to hide behind. She cleans herself up, as best as she can, one more time, and pads over to the door, swinging it open.

The Soldier is standing on the other side, his face contorted with concern.

“Are you okay?” he demands.

The Engineer nods, a shaky, stunted thing, and does something viciously stupid. She wraps her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest so that she can hear how his heart beats in his chest.

He hesitates, but finally, one metal arm wraps around her waist, and his flesh hand settles on her hair.

“ _Gayetchka_?” his voice rumbles in her ear, down from his chest.

“It’s nothing,” she insists, her voice high and sharp.

She looks up and he looks down at her and doesn’t believe her – she can see it in his eyes, but his fingers run through her hair, nevertheless, grounding her to the spot, in this room, with him, where she’s safe.

“You’re not,” he exhales.

“I _am_.”

“You’re not,” the Soldier purses his lips into a thin line. “But you won’t tell me why.”

The Engineer licks her lips and grimaces at the taste. “I can’t,” she confesses, shamefaced. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

How can she tell him that she’s getting weaker? Weapons don’t become weak. And soon, they’ll send her back to HYDRA, knowing that she’s weak, and the commander will know. He’ll know, and he won’t have it. He’ll have her decommissioned, and the Soldier will be alone, and she can’t-no, she _won’t_ have that.

The Soldier remains silent, but she can tell he doesn’t like it. He holds her close, settling his chin over her head.

She can’t tell him how weak she is, not until she’s rid of it, not until she’s strong again, not until she can protect him, not until she knows HYDRA ( _the commander_ ) won’t hurt either of them.

She just can’t.

So, she won’t.

* * *

**1993**

_New York, America_

They are climbing down the stairs of an apartment the KGB had rented for them, a little flat in a shady little corner of Brooklyn, when it happens. Their target is some corrupt politician, with slicked back hair, a smarmy grin and a predilection for groping boys and girls no matter where he goes.

He also has a tendency to visit the same diner every day, at nine in the morning, to gorge himself on a stack of their pancakes, drizzled with maple syrup and butter, and a glass of strong, black coffee.

It’s a routine they can take advantage of.

They look like a married couple, just moved down from Manhattan, and the Soldier hides his metal arm under a glove and the sleeve of a bomber jacket. Their hands sway between them, knuckles barely grazing, but the Engineer has never felt more comfortable than in this moment.

It happens out on the street.

They’re crossing the road, past a gaggle of children, all dressed up. One is in red, white and blue, with a cowl covering his head and tiny, white plastic wings sticking out of his temples, with a trashcan held out in front of him, mocking a shield, while the other children, but for one, surround him threateningly. The other child has his back, wears navy, with red gloves and an equally glaring scarf around his necks, followed by black goggles covering his eyes.

“You will never defeat me, Red Skull,” the boy in red, white and blue declares, boldly. “Captain America always defeats the bad guys.”

“And I’m Bucky Barnes! You’ll never stop us both!”

The Engineer bites back a smile.

Beside her, though, the Soldier turns taut, like a piano wire.

She grips his forearm, her face softening with concern.

“Soldat?” she begins, in a low, rushed voice.

He looks like the last breath is about to twist out of him, face pale and wan.

“Something’s wrong.” His voice comes out distorted and thin.

She curls into him, the hand on his forearm sliding up to cover his shoulder.

“Shall we go back to the apartment?” she asks, roughly.

She can feel his pulse, a heavy thud, under the pads of her fingertips on his wrist. His eyelashes are wet and dark and fine, something ugly and loud clamouring in his eyes, like his world is going up in fire right in front of him.

It shutters off, his expression emptying out, and he shakes his head.

“No,” he rasps. “We must complete the mission.”

She nods, even though her heart’s pounding desperately against her lungs, and she helps take a step forward, and then another, and then another, until the bell above the diner door, rings shrilly and her hand curls around the hilt of the knife strapped to her thigh, ready to slit the throat of an imagined enemy behind her.

She lets the breath loosen from her lungs and they walk into the diner, taking a seat at an empty, cloistered booth in the corner of the brightly-lit room.

The sunshine barely touches them, just the way they like it.

They watch the senator gorge himself on his food, while the two order a plate of dry, wheat toast and two glasses of water, subtly peering at their target over scheduled bites of the toast.

A waitress brings by a slice of pie, topped with golden-brown crust, the insides wet and blood apple red. The Engineer’s stomach clenches in hunger, but the Soldier, opposite her, his eyes go big and round like the moon, his long fingers curling around the edge of the table until she feels it crack underneath his grip.

She leans forward. “What’s going on with you?” she hisses.

He looks at her, like he’s lost at sea. “I don’t… I don’t know. I just… I’ve had that pie before. I don’t know where, but I’ve had it before. It won’t…”

It all wells up inside him like a floodgate is breaking, and for the first time ever, she thinks she’s afraid for him. He’s shaking in his seat, his fingernails dug into his thighs over the jeans he had worn to complete the image of a newlywed couple they were trying to portray. His hand jolts and the glass tips out onto the floor, the water dripping in a steady trickle that dampens her lap.

She lurches to his feet and grips him by the arm, pulling him up as well. She stares at him, watches as something haunted and dark looms in his eyes.

“We’re going. _Now_.”

He follows her out obediently like a puppy dog on a leash. He’s clutching onto her with a death grip, a grip that may have broken the arm of a civilian if she weren’t strong now, as if he thinks he’ll fall apart to pieces if he lets her go.

Silly _Soldat_ ; she won’t ever let him fall apart.

Her smile as they cross the street is toothy and too sharp at the edges, at least to her, but it does the trick. Everyone around them is convinced they’re rushing back to their apartment to fuck like bunnies like they’re on their honeymoon.

“The target,” he rasps, his composure lying somewhere on the dirty road.

Who gives a shit about the target?

She regrets the words immediately. She is not a defective asset. The mission is imperative to her existence. She will just have to complete the mission another day. It shouldn’t look odd to their handlers or their superiors – there are always variables that cannot be calculated or accounted for; she will come up with something, just not the Soldier’s malfunctioning.

She thinks she will die protecting him.

But it isn’t foolish or rash, because she knows he would die protecting her as well.

There is no need for words between them.

“We’ll deal with the target another day,” she says, firmly.

The Soldier nods and curls into her, places all of his trust in her and lets her lead him away with the knowledge that she will put herself between him and everything else, just as he would for her.

They pass by the children playing their game in the streets.

“Steve…” the boy in navy gasps, theatrically, splayed out on the ground with his cowled friend kneeling beside him. “I’m sorry. I’m not gonna make it. You gotta go on without me. You gotta fight the Nazis, get rid of the Red Skull. You gotta… you gotta…” he slumps down, his eyes falling shut, pretending to be dead.

“Noah, mum wants you to come inside now!”

A little girl stands on the edge of the road, feet tipping off the curb. Her hands are on her hips, over a pretty red dress, and the ribbons in her hair blow through the wind.

The Soldier jolts.

She looks at him.

She watches as the Soldier cracks open at the scene, splayed out and wrecked, and he goes rigid, like stone, something looming between his eyes, sharp as a knife. He turns on her, his eyes rabid and brutal, and his grip on her turns from soft to punishing.

“Who are you?” he demands. “Where am I? How’d I get here?”

Dread swoops down and crashes in her stomach. “Soldat?” she tries, ignoring how her arm is sure to be a mottled canvas of bruises, peach and yellow and purple in the next few hours.

“Who the fuck is Soldat?” he scowls at like he hates her.

It hurts.

“Where am I? Where’s Steve?” he demands.

Confusion rings through her, and before she can even say a word, ask him _who’s Steve_?, he’s gripping her by the shoulders and shaking her with enough force that he’d snap his neck if he could (he can but she doesn’t think he registers it.

“What did ya do to him, you HYDRA bitch?” he snarls.

The Engineer recoils in hurt and humiliation at the stinging words, before raising up in fury.

“We are in the middle of a crowded street, full of civilians and _children_ ,” she says, sternly. “We aren’t having this conversation here, understand?”

The anger is hot and hard in his face, and he looks like he wants to argue, but he spots the children continuing to play in the middle of the road, and he shakes, head to foot.

He lets her drag him away like a puppy dog on a leash, at least until they’re in some dirty alley and away from the loud, shrill voices of the people in the street. As soon as they’re away from curious eyes, he attempts to pin her against the wall, his hands slanted against her shoulders, as he looms into her field of vision. He pulls out a knife from somewhere (she wonders if he even knew it was there, in the state he’s in), and brandishes at her, angles it upward against her torso so that it would slide into her rib if his wrist shifted just a little.

“Who the fuck _are_ you?” he asks, coldly. “Why am I in Brooklyn? How’d you get me here?”

The way he talks, that thick New York accent that she had only heard from him once, a good seven years ago, fights against the swooping crash in her stomach.

“Soldat?”

He shakes her, viciously, his fists clenching so tight on her shoulders that she can see the veins in his hands rising to the surface.

“Why are you callin’ me Soldat? Do I look like a damn Kraut t’ya?”

_Kraut. An offensive word for a German. Used primarily by American and British soldiers during World Wars I and II. Interesting._

She tries another approach, curling a long-fingered, elegant hand around his wrist.

“Listen, I think you’re not feeling well,” she offers with a slow, lazy smile. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

He looks down at her touch on his wrist and his face flickers with uncertainty for a brief moment before hardening. He shoves her up against the brick wall and she ignores the fleeting discomfort of having her head scraping against such a rough surface.

“Don’t fuckin’ try and fool me, bitch.” He bares his teeth. “You ain’t my friend, and we both know it.”

She sighs, her frustration winning out. She hitches herself up against the wall and plants her foot in his stomach, shoving him away from her. He scowls, immediately, and lunges for her.

He doesn’t fight like she’s used to him fighting; he’s all sloppy and savage instinct, no strategy, no knowledge, no technique behind anything he throws at her. He doesn’t even fight like he’s strong, like he could lift a car or bend metal; he fights like he’s weak and simple and frail, and she disables him easily.

She ducks under his arm and slams the point of her elbow into his head. He hits the brick wall with a harsh crack against his skull that she can’t help wince to, and he crumples.

From the ground, curled up in a heap, he looks up at her, face slack, eyes open and blank, a gauzy numbness veiling the endless shades of blue and grey she can usually see in his pupil.

“Antonia?” he mumbles, his voice grating and fuzzy.

_Antonia? Who the fuck is Antonia?_

She feels the acid rush of jealousy almost immediately.

But before she can act on anything she’s feeling, the muddled blend of fear and confusion and desperation and worry and frustration and hot, aching jealousy, the Soldier’s eyes roll back into his head and gives into unconsciousness.

_Great. Just great._

She slides her arms under him and drags and drags and drags.

* * *

She sits up against the headboard, with his head cradled in her lap, her fingers dragging through his hair, slow and steady, his face slack with sleep, until he comes back to hazy consciousness in her arms.

His eyelashes are fine and dark against his skin, when he awakens. He looks up at her, clear-eyed, and jack-knifes out of her arms.

“What happened? How did we get here? Where is the target?” he asks, coldly, something looming behind his eyes, dark and grating.

The Engineer slowly climbs to her feet, pushing off the bed. Her fingers drag over the slope of her hip, itching to curl around a weapon, just in case.

She’s never been afraid of him, never properly considered the possibility that he might hurt her, but _just in case._

“Soldat?” she tries, her eyes needle-sharp.

He gives her a frustrated look. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like I don’t know you? I wonder why,” she says, dryly.

His gaze as it drags over her is careful and weighty. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

The Engineer runs a hand through her hair. “Do you have _any_ idea what you…” she grits her teeth. She runs a hand over her face. “Do you not remember _anything_ from the last hour?” she demands.

The Soldier crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Am I supposed to remember something in particular?” he asks, his voice like flint shards.

He’s cagey, she can tell, all hungry and haunted, his face dark and closed off, like he doesn’t want to acknowledge the shadow looming behind him.

 _Like he’s terrified of it_ , she realises.

She decides to change her approach. She won’t get anything out of him if she treats him like her enemy.

“You don’t remember what happened in the diner then?” she asks, carefully.

“We were watching the target eating his calorie-ridden breakfast, and then, suddenly we were back in our apartment. If you were expecting me to fill in the blanks, I’m afraid I won’t be able to.”

He runs his hand through his unbound hair. His eyes drag down to her bare arm, already bruised in various shades of peach and yellow and purple. His expression turns frighteningly furious before smoothening out. He reaches out, before withdrawing, as if he’s unsure if his touch will be welcomed.

Poor man. His touch is always welcomed.

“What happened?” he asks with a visible swallow. “To your arm, what happened?”

“What do you think happened?” she asks, quietly.

He won’t ever admit it, and she won’t ever talk about it, but they both remember how he reacted in the car in Washington DC.

The Soldier grits his teeth. “I’m not playing this game with you, _gayetchka_. Tell me what happened.”

“There was pie. The waitress brought by a slice of pie that you said you’d had before. You… you _freaked_ out.”

There was no other way to explain it.

“Over baked pastry?” the Soldier asks, sceptically.

“Over baked pastry,” she agrees. “So, I removed you from the situation. It wouldn’t have been conducive to the mission operation if you had lost control. So, we left. You were somewhat contained until we left the diner. There were children playing in the middle of the street. You were watching them and you just…” she shakes her head. “Something _changed_ in you. Your speech pattern, your accent, your dialect, your vernacular. You were using words I’d never heard before from you. You called me a Kraut.”

It comes out like she’s offended at the comparison, at the very idea that he might insult her.

After a moment, she decides she _is_ offended.

“A Kraut,” he repeats, slowly, brow furrowing.

“It is an offensive word for a German, used primarily by American and British soldiers during World Wars I and II,” she replies, promptly, almost snidely.

The Soldier pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I know what Kraut means. I don’t know why I would call _you_ one though,” he says, his voice clipped and terse.

“Of course, I’m hardly German and this isn’t 1945.” Her voice is prim.

The Soldier rolls his eyes.

She bites her lip. “I’ve never seen you look like that before,” she confesses, her eyes wide and liquid-brown and concerned. “Like you were stripped down to your white meat and you were desperate.”

The Soldier looks away, his jaw clenching. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she says, incredulously.

“For frightening you. For compromising the mission. Pick which is suitable; it doesn’t matter. I should not have put you in that position,” he says, wearily. “You should not have to account for my weakness.”

“I seem to remember another time when I said the same thing to you, and you refused, vociferously.”

“That is very different,” he grits out.

“No, it really isn’t,” she says, gently, like her opinion is all that should matter to him.

He looks at her then, steadily, his eyes vulnerable and open and hopeful, and she realises: it is. For him, it is.

There’s a strange tightness in her chest, her heart pounding against her lungs, like she’s oscillating at the edge of being overwhelmingly alive, like she doesn’t know how it feels, what it could do to her, and it’s the single most frightening and beautiful thing that she’s ever experienced or could ever experience.

She smiles at him, and she’s aware it shakes, it’s a little giddy.

She holds out a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, in a firm, no-nonsense tone.

The Soldier’s eyes gleam with dry amusement. “Have you become my caretaker now, _carevna_?”

She grimaces. “I’m no one’s caretaker.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m not a princess either.”

His lips twitch, but he lets her press him down onto the bed, while she retrieves a damp towel. She doesn’t even hesitate before settling in his lap and cleaning his face, slowly, even if his face flickers with surprise. Nonetheless, his hands grip her hips like they belong there, while she sluices the sweat and grime from his face, like he’s done a dozen times for her, like she’s done a dozen times for him.

She brushes his hair from his face. “Tell me what happened to you today,” she murmurs, her voice brooking no argument.

He scowls at her like a thundercloud. “I don’t understand why we need to have this conversation again. We’ve already gone through it.”

“That’s not the point,” she admonishes, gently. She sighs and places her hand on his cheek, running a thumb over his cheekbone. “I just want to know what happened, if you’re okay.” She swallows hard. “I won’t tell anyone,” she says, carefully.

He clucks his tongue, squeezing her hip. “Of course, you wouldn’t.” He looks away, momentarily, the lines around his eyes tightening. “Something snapped,” he breathes. “In my head, I don’t…” he takes a deep breath. “I saw the pie, and I thought I’ve had it somewhere. I didn’t know where. I couldn’t point it out in my head, in my memories. And then, in the street, those children, they were playing, and they said Captain America, right?” he looks up at her, his eyes liquid. “They were playing Captain America, right? Steve and-and his friend…” his brow furrows, like he’s trying to remember the name, but he keeps missing.

“Bucky Barnes,” she replies for him, softly. “He was Captain America’s right-hand man.”

He nods. “I’ve reacted like that before, haven’t I?”

“Yes. In 1986, when we were sent to Washington DC, to terminate Margaret Carter. I mentioned that she worked with Captain America, and you looked like you’d seen a ghost,” she tells him. She blinks. “Who is he to you, Steve Rogers?”

“I don’t know,” he moans, an ugly, visceral noise, completely without artifice. “I don’t know, but I think… I don’t think…” he shakes his head, his eyes wide and blue-grey and terrified. “I think I was… _someone_ before I was the Soldier,” he tells her, in a low, rushed voice, as if it’s poisonous, disgusting to even think those words, let alone say them.

She doesn’t know how to tell him that she’s been thinking the same thing.

She runs her hands through his hair and pulls him in, so that he can rest his forehead on her collarbone. He goes willingly, aided by the blunt scratch of nails against his scalp. He clutches at her tight, with a grip that would break someone ordinary, his fingers dragging back and forth against the curve of her spine like it gave him peace.

“It has something to do with Steve Rogers,” she murmurs.

He flinches at the name. “Who is he?” he asks, dully.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know much; all I know is that his team was responsible for HYDRA’s failures in World War II. He was an important symbol for the Allied effort, and all of his campaigns were targeted at HYDRA’s offensives.”

“And this Bucky Barnes?” the Soldier grits out the name like it physically pains him.

“I don’t know much about him either. Sergeant in the United States army; very good sniper. Apparently, he and Rogers grew up together. That’s all I know.” She drags her fingers through his hair, rubbing small circles across the scalp.

The Soldier looks like a butterfly tacked to a display case, chewed up and spat out, something wretched and hollowed-out shadowing his eyes, like the sky is on fire inside him and he doesn’t know how to put his bridges back together, now that they’ve been pulled apart 

She grips the back of his neck, thumb dragging over his raspy jaw, leans in close, pressing their foreheads together.

“We’ll figure this out,” she promises, solemnly.

He looks at her like she’s a revelation, tracing abstract patterns in the dip of her spine. He pulls her in close, the curves of her body settling nice and easy against the solid lines of his.

They shouldn’t be doing this, giving into the easy, unthinking familiarity that has built between them for nineteen years, folding in each other’s embrace like this life is theirs, this little, ramshackle apartment with bare heating and one bed and with only each other to keep warm, like they don’t belong to HYDRA, like they belong to each other instead.

She kisses him, then, gently, at first, unable to resist the draw, like they’re twin stars orbiting each other, never touching, but always wanting to.

His mouth is slack underneath hers, just for a moment, like he can’t quite believe what she’s doing, before he leans in, with a hurt little noise coming dragging out of his throat, turning the kiss from a sweet little thing to something deep and affirming.

He slides his hair into her dark, thick hair, thumbing the strands like this is a little joy in his life he never thought he’d ever get to partake in. He moans and presses in a little firmer, his fingers slanting over the slope of her hip.

She makes a huffy sound of surprise and amusement when he topples her down onto her back, on top of the mattress, her lungs working again. Her hands go to his shoulders, her dark hair spilling across the sheets and pillow.

“I was not… expecting that,” she murmurs, her grin all teeth and satisfaction.

The Soldier looms over her. “You should be more aware of your surroundings, _milaya moya_ ,” he rumbles.

Something inside her melts at the endearment.

“Am I?” she asks, past the knot in her throat. “Am I your darling?”

The Soldier softens. He grips one of her hands, threading their fingers together, and raises it, pressing it against his heart and then, against his temple.

“Everything I am, everything I have, belongs to you, do you understand me?” he asks, in a low, rushed voice.

If anyone heard them, if anyone knew who they were, their deaths would be slow and miserable; after HYDRA was done with them, they’d be nothing but splatters of blood on the walls.

His discretion is noted.

But all she can do is linger on is his words, which settle in sweetly in the hollow empty spaces beneath her heart and in her ribs.

She bites down on her lower lip and pulls him down for a deep, filthy kiss, one that takes her breath away and makes her turn soft like cotton candy, wrapping her arms and legs around him so he can lie on top of her properly.

“I wouldn’t share this life with anyone but you,” she breathes, slanting her hands over his cheeks, thumb pressing into the bruises under his eyes. “I’ve never wanted, _could_ never want, anything or anyone more than I’ve wanted you. I am only whole, solid, palpable, when I’m with you.”

She kisses him, on the forehead, then his cheeks, his eyes, his jaw and finally, his mouth, which he welcomes so willingly, bearing her down into the mattress.

The heat licks at her and makes her moan against him.

They strip each other of their clothes, as if there was no other outcome of what they began in this bed. She runs her hands over his thick, deft muscles, all of that smooth, supple skin and thew exposed to her that she had thought of, lingered over, but had never reached for.

He hesitates, though. There’s lust and heat in his eyes, so she knows he wants her, but his hands hover like he doesn’t think he can, like he isn’t _allowed_ to put his hands on her, even if she wants him; it’s like she doesn’t belong to him, which, in truth, she does.

It’s a malfunction, a sin, to think like that, to even formulate the words, but there is nothing more undeniable than that.

Where he lingers, she threads their fingers together and places his warm palm over the soft curve of her breast. His eyes widen, his ears and neck flushing dark, but any gentle amusement she might’ve felt at his expense fades very quickly, when he rolls a plump, dark nipple between his metal fingers, eyes needle-sharp and keenly fixated on his endeavour.

She whines, arching up into the touch, and he stares down at her, awed, like he can’t quite believe she’s responding like _that_ , to _him_ , of all people. His hand moves down to the slope of her hip and he hitches her up against him, in a burst of confidence, and she feels the press of his hard cock curving up against her belly, making her blush.

He wants her; oh, he wants her. 

“Is this…” he clears his throat; she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so shy. “Is this okay?”

“Everything you do to me is okay,” she whispers, pressing their smiles together briefly.

The Soldier swallows hard, heavy, and lets her turn him onto his back so that she can perch in his lap. She plants her hands on his shoulders.

“Is this okay?” she asks in return.

What they do with each other in this bed is only meant for sweet, beautiful, hungry things – violence, pain, humiliation has no place here; she won’t let it touch them here.

He nods, his hands settling on her hips. She bites her lip, still pressing one of his hands against her breast, while she rolls her hips against his. He becomes bolder with his touch, cupping the flesh firmly, thumb rolling over her nipple until it hardens to a point.

She splutters and grips his shoulders to steady herself.

“You’re so soft, so strong,” he says, awed. He looks at her, eyes dark and hungry. “I never knew it could be like this.”

She leans down, curving over his body, and kisses him, hands skating across his arms and broad chest, until they settle on his ridged abdomen. Goosebumps pebble across her skin when his fingers trail from her breast, down her sternum and stomach to the dip in her pelvic bone, the join of her thigh, just shy of her cunt. She feels that spike of animal desire, the flare of arousal, and holds her breath.

But he looks at her first, uncertain. “May I?” he asks.

“Do what you want with me,” she sighs.

His fingers are thick and deft, and he slides them up inside right until the knuckle. Blessedly, she’s plenty wet and her flesh gives way for him without much stretch. The heel of his hand is pressed against her clit, and she writhes in his lap, leaving nail marks in his shoulder.

He winds her up, slowly, watching how she pants and moans and the tendons under her skin jerk and the dirty, little grinds of her hips, how she leaves wet streaks on his abdomen, his thighs, his cock.

He just looks at her like she’s faultless.

What he says next makes her jolt in surprise.

“I want to taste you,” he declares.

She blinks and looks down at him. “Oh?” her voice is thready, a little high-pitched.

“Yes,” he says, tentatively. “Unless, that isn’t something that you want.”

“No,” she says, quickly. “It’s just… no one’s ever offered to do that for me before.” She makes a face. “No one’s ever done that for me before either.”

His jaw clenches, just the slightest, but she catches it.

She shouldn’t find it as endearing as it is, but in this world that they live in, he _cares._

“How do you… I mean, I suppose…” she clears her throat, ashamed at being caught so strung out. She takes a deep breath. “How do you want to do this?”

His hand settles on her thigh. “Will you, uh…” he licks his lips, his eyes going hot. “Will you, uh, come up here?”

Her eyes widen as she registers what he means. “You mean…” her fingers ripple in the direction of where his head is lying. “You mean put my legs there.”

“Yes, uh, sit astride me here, and lower yourself…” he cuts himself off halfway, curling his tongue around the last word in a way that makes everything inside her melt.

He wants her to straddle his face, her thighs on either side of his head, as she grinds down.

She turns red.

She’s only ever seen that in movies.

He registers her hesitation as rejection. “If you don’t want to, that’s okay too,” he urges.

“No,” she says, boldly, blinking. “No, I want to.” Her voice is thin and shy.

He smiles at her, then, the first time she’s ever seen his teeth in joy, and she thinks she might die for this man. She thinks she would be content with any life as long as he was there.

“Did you want to…?”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, yes. Yes.”

 _You sound like a virgin_ , she wants to scoff at herself.

She shakes her head, gives him a smile that shines like starlight, and awkwardly shuffles up his long, broad body, stretching out her knees to account for the width of his shoulders, before hesitating.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks, dragging her fingers through her hair, self-consciously.

He gives her a teasing smile. “Are you shy, _milaya moya_?”

She bites her lip, as her grin broadens. “With you, always.”

His smile fades, his expression setting in resolve. He reaches up to twist a finger in her hair.

“I won’t ever hurt you, I swear it.”

“I know,” she reassures, running her fingers over his face, over his eyes and cheeks and mouth and jaw, memorising how he looks in this moment. “I’m just being silly.”

She bites her lip and crouches forward, gripping the headboard, settling her hips onto his face.

“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice hushed.

“It’s fine,” he reassures, flesh hand splaying on her soft, dark thigh, thumb rubbing into the dip of her pelvic bone.

He pushes down, silently asking her to sink down onto him, and with just a moment’s dithering, she bears down, holding onto the headboard for balance, while he grips her hip and thigh.

She jolts at the first, tentative touch of his mouth against her, gasping a little at the sensation. He licks into her slow, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing but he’s eager to learn. His grip on her hip and thigh tightens, and the next time he licks at her cunt, it’s firm and curious, and it makes her shudder, head to foot.

The scruff on his jaw scrapes against her inner thighs, making her nerve endings tingle, and soon, she descends to dirty little grinds of her hips against his face, as he takes her apart slowly. She cants her hips down, urged by the press of his fingers and the hurt little noises he makes against her soft flesh.

She looks down at the sight between her spread thighs, her body writhing on top of him like a live wire, the slow, shallow fractures in the wooden headboard, and the cloying scent of sex that hovers around them, and with a single tug of a plump, pert nipple, she comes, grinding down against him.

The headboard comes away in her hand, with a loud, grating noise as the wood snaps. He pulls her in close, his hold on her turning indomitable, like he wants to drag out every undignified little noise of pleasure from her mouth, like he wants them as close as possible, like he wants to climb inside her, so they can be one instead of two.

She comes for what seems like an eternity, tightening up against him, leaving impressions of her nails in his skin, and it leaves her rattled and shaking and exposed, like she’s missing her skin, like she’s showing her bones and her flesh and her sins and everything she is at her pith. He soothes her, stroking her abdomen, her thighs, over the goosebumps that have pebbled. She keens, a soft, broken little noise, almost like a sob, and leans into the pleasant stretch of her thighs, bending down and pulling him into a deep, filthy kiss.

She can taste herself, sharp, with a salt-spray bite, and her cunt clenches and unclenches around nothing.

He surges into the kiss, sitting up and tipping her back, until he catches her with his arms, before she topples onto her back.

“I don’t remember anything before you, and I don’t need to, do you understand me?” he says, roughly, kissing her on the pulse point in her wrist, and then her eyes and her mouth. “I just want to keep you. If I was a man before, I’m not him anymore. I’m just _yours_.”

She nods, a little shaky, a little jittery, and grips his shoulders. “We’ll figure it out,” she echoes her earlier promise. “But it won’t change _this_ , I promise.”

She threads their fingers together and presses their joined hands against their hearts, the beats stretching through that invisible bridge.

The Soldier nods, stiffly, relieved, and kisses her gently again, tracing the curve of her spine gently. She deepens the kiss, hitching herself up against him and running her fingers through his hair, blunt nails dragging across his scalp, while his chest hair scratches at her nipples. She braces herself with one hand on his shoulder, while the other winds between them, wrapping a long-fingered, elegant hand around the base of his cock, where it’s hard and heavy and curving against his belly.

He sucks in a sharp breath at the simple touch. She kisses it off his mouth, amused, pressing her forehead against his, as she moves onto her knees, straddling him, and lazily strokes upwards. He moans and fists a hand in her hair, tight enough that the sting makes her nipples tighten.

“Does it feel good?” she whispers.

He nods, and her mouth curves into an indolent smirk.

She rubs slow circles on the spongy underside of his cock, just under the head, feels his muscles tense and ripple in response, and doesn’t even need to look at the way his eyes are like two dark orbs in a pale face, the way his cheeks roll with red, or the way the sweat prickles on his neck to know that he’s moments away from coming.

He gropes her arse with one hand and snaps his hips forward, right into the tight grip she has on his cock. She’s doing this dry, when lubrication would facilitate it, but the Soldier doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seems quite into it, so she isn’t in a hurry to change her technique just yet.

He comes hard, with a hot little groan behind his teeth. The first pulse of his come catches her on her palm, then her stomach, her hip and her arm. She works his cock and he ruts into the grip, and the ugly, visceral orgasm that he’s dealt turns her slick and aching and greedy all over again. She waits for his orgasm to ebb away and for him to rest his head over the hollow between her breasts, his mouth a slack, wet smear against her shoulder, before she licks her palm clean, mouth closing over each of her fingers in a tight seal, as she locks her eyes with his.

He watches everything she does with want, before it all becomes too much for him to bear and he groans, punching out that hurt little noise, and pulls her hand away from her mouth, kissing her firmly and bearing her down onto the sheets.

She laughs.

“Devil spawn,” he grumbles. “I know I’ve said it before, but now I know it’s the truth.”

She sighs. “Don’t pretend. Where would you be without me?” she gives him a coy look, running her hands up his thick, sinewed arms.

The Soldier gives her a half-amused, half-solemn look. “Nowhere I’d want to be,” he says, gently.

Her answering smile is bright and she reaches for him, pulling him down on top of her, so she can slant her mouth over his, as he drags his hands, flesh and metal, all over her warm body, over her shoulders and breasts and abdomen and thighs. His curious, eager touch awakens her arousal all over again and she rubs up against him, feeling his cock harden against her hip, upon which he promptly grinds up against the dip in her pelvic bone.

“Sorry,” he says, embarrassed, his ears turning red.

“Don’t be,” she says, confidently, running her fingers through his hair. “I like it.”

He looks at her with such awe that the blood is hot in her face.

Then, he wraps a hand around her ankle and hooks her thigh over his hip. She reaches between their bodies, which is no easy feat, and fists his cock. She arches up hips, keeping her thighs spread, and lets him sink inside, inch by inch, while she lies there, letting herself only breath little by little. She sighs a little at the sensation of being so full, so stretched, when he’s all the way inside her, right to the root of his cock. 

She grips his shoulder, leaving impressions of her nails in his skin, as her cunt clenches over and over again.

He swallows hard, animal desire and wonder bleak in his face, shaking from head to foot above her. “Am I… am I hurting you?” he asks, worriedly, his muscles taut.

She shakes her head, almost hysterically. “No, no.” She sounds almost close to tears. She places her hand on his cheek. “You could never hurt me.”

He brushes her a stray, damp strand of hair away from her face. “Then, what’s wrong?”

“It’s just…” she blinks like she wants to blink away tears. “It’s just it’s never felt like this before. It’s like galaxies are colliding, like the universe is coming together for the first time. It’s like you’re everything, _we’re_ everything.”

She swallows hard, and there’s a knot in her throat, in her lungs, in those hollow, empty spaces beneath her heart and ribs.

“I don’t ever want to lose this,” she confesses.

The Soldier softens and kisses her like he’s starving, like he can taste everything that she is, everything that she wants and he’s promising her that he’ll give it to her.

He’ll give her the entire universe if that’s what she wants.

She rolls her hips, lets him thrust, grunting a little with every dirty little grind they make together. He cants his hips forward, taking her apart slowly, while she pulls him down for another deep, filthy kiss that steals the breath out of his lungs. He buries his face in her neck, noses at her clean scent, like soap dappled with sweat, his chest hair scraping against her nipples. He sucks a dark bruise into her skin, wanting to see that mark on her, a mark that would fade and be safe.

He holds her down for what seems like hours, and she yanks at the sheets and writhes. Her orgasm rattles right through her, almost like a surprise, even if she had been eagerly, greedily waiting for the sensation, and she tightens up around him, crying out, the sheets giving away in her hands like wet paper. She grinds down in a rhythmless frenzy, desperate to wring out his own orgasm alongside hers, grappling for his shoulders while she splutters out something unintelligible but honest.

He comes with a rough groan, buried in her neck, done in by the fluttering aftershocks of her inner muscles. She feels it, the thick wet mess of come inside her, and heat prickles, low in her abdomen, at the wet obscene noise that it makes.

When he pulls out of her, she whines at the loss, despite how much it should embarrass her, and reaches for him. He pulls her pliant body in close, unwilling to let her go just yet, lets her throw her arm and leg over his body, clutching at him like an octopus.

She’s a wrung-out, limp, trembling mess of nerve endings and endorphins, yet she doesn’t think she’s ever been happier, more content, than in this moment.

She drapes herself over him, a warm weight on his stomach, and stares up at him, resting her jaw on his breastbone. He rests his flesh hand on her hair, smooths it back.

“Was it, uh, was it good for you?” he asks, slowly, almost shy with the way his tongue curls around the words.

She breaks out into a smile, kissing the curve of a pectoral. “It was very good,” she reassures.

“Good.” He clears his throat. “I have, uh, no memory of doing this, ever. You are my first, the only first that matters. So, uh, I’m glad that it was good… for you.”

She leans over him and presses her mouth against his. “I can’t imagine wanting anything more than this with you.”

He gives her a tentative, sheepish smile and tucks her head under his jaw. His metal hand goes to her hip, with some reticence.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice low, rushed. “My hand-”

She grips his metal hand. “Your hand feels very nice. Leave it there.”

“Okay.”

“I wanted to ask you something,” she says, after a moment of doubt and silence.

The Soldier looks down at her, his brow furrowed. “What is it?” he asks, curiously.

“You…” she splays her hand against his warm side, feels his heart thump underneath her fingertips. “In the alley, you called me Antonia. Who’s Antonia?”

She watches as his eyes widen in fear, before his expression smooths out.

 _Tell me she isn’t some girl you’ve found,_ she wants to beg, but she thinks it’ll make her sound weak and foolish and vulnerable.

“Do you really want me to tell you?” he asks, solemnly, his gaze careful and weighty.

She thinks for a moment, wonders what it will do to her to learn the truth, but ultimately nods.

She isn’t afraid.

“Yes, I want to know.”

“It’s you. You’re Antonia.”

For a moment, she doesn’t quite understand what he’s saying. For a moment, she thinks he’s ill, he’s not in his right mind; a myriad of excuses to explain what he just said and its falsehood come to mind, but finally, it all hits her, like the stinging bite of cold steel.

“Oh,” she says, lamely. She looks up at him, confused. “But why would you call me that? I don’t have a name.”

He looks at her, his eyes wide and blue-grey and uncertain. “You do. You do have a name.”

The blood rushes to her ears; she hears her heart skip and jump like a broken metronome.

“But, but, but you said-” she can’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Assets don’t have names,” he repeats, almost disgusted with himself. “But you do. You always have.”

The panic slips into her body like a disease. “I don’t… I don’t understand,” she says, carefully, lifting herself onto her elbows. “Assets don’t have names,” she insists, desperately.

It’s all she has left to cling to.

He cups her face in his broad palms, his fingers sliding into her hair a fraction of an inch, and he kisses her, gentle and sweet, like he’s saying _I understand_ and _I’m sorry_ and _let me take half of this burden from you._

The noise that leaves her is a high, grating whine, and she curls herself around him like he’s the only shield she has – he _is_ the only shield she has.

_Antonia._

_My name is Antonia._

The urge to run rears its ugly head, to scratch, kick, carve, fight – it’s all she knows.

She doesn’t _know_ Antonia.

Antonia doesn’t even exist, not really. She’s a woman that could’ve been, but will never be, now.

She is the Engineer. She doesn’t _want_ to be Antonia.

She looks at him, then, and the look in his eyes grounds her. He wouldn’t have told her this lightly – it means something for them, to have a name, to have an existence, and he’s giving her that, even when he knows they could die for this.

No, she won’t run. She won’t run from him. He’s the only thing unfailing in her existence. How could she run from him?

“How…” she closes her eyes, counts to ten, and something fists between her ribs, grips in close. “How do you know?” she asks, haltingly.

He doesn’t say a word, holds all the pain anyone could possibly bear in the gentle curve of his smile (she wonders how long he’s been holding it inside him; he’s much older than her, after all).

His eyes drift down to where the black band of leather circles his wrist, the one thing they don’t touch, the one thing they don’t even talk about.

_Oh._

“Take mine off,” she says, suddenly, holding up her veiled wrist. “And I’ll take yours off, and only the two of us will ever know anything happened.”

“It’s forbidden,” he says, eyes wide and big as the moon, like he can’t believe she even suggested it.

“So is this,” she points out, tangling their legs together. “But we still did it. And it doesn’t feel wrong. Not to me, at least. Does it feel wrong to you?”

_Please don’t let the single most beautiful and absolute moment in my existence feel wrong to you._

“No,” he says, firmly. “No, it doesn’t feel wrong. But this…” he licks his lips. “This is very different.”

She runs a finger over the lines of his collarbone. “If you don’t want to do this, we won’t.”

He threads their fingers together and presses his mouth to the joined hands. “You said we’d figure this out,” he says, slowly.

“I did.”

“Protocols dictate that we may never remove our cuffs, but protocols do not account for when our cuffs may be removed by someone else,” he says, edgily.

She wants to smile, to show her teeth, to tell him how proud she is of him. She simply lays her hand on his heart, feels it leap under her palm, and kisses him over his cheekbone.

It feels even more painfully intimate than letting him inside her.

She reaches for his cuff; she doesn’t take her eyes off his – this isn’t about a name that may or may not be on his wrist. She just wants to pull all that pain and weariness from him. It comes apart in her finger, and it rolls onto the bed. She pulls his wrist close and reads the name.

_Antonia Margaret Stark._

_I am Antonia Margaret Stark._

She swallows hard. “Stark, as in Howard Stark,” she reasons. “The weapons engineer; SHIELD founder; CEO of Stark Industries. Threat Level 2.” She bites her lip. “He is my father.” Her tongue curls around the last word, trying them out, and they don’t fit quite right.

“Yes,” he answers, his voice growing soft.

“Margaret, after Margaret Carter,” she whispers. “I was named after her. She is important to my father.”

“I don’t know, but I would assume so.”

She nods and tucks her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t want to linger on it any longer, so she raises her wrist, placing it on his breastbone.

“Will you take it off me?”

He nods, mustering a shaky smile just for her, and undoes the cuff. Her belly swoop, but she keeps her eyes on his. Her lungs squeeze a little too tight when the cuff falls away.

“I won’t look if you don’t want me to,” she blurts out, roughly, her heart fluttering in panic.

He stares at her for a moment, before tracking down to her wrist. The sorrow that lines his face ebbs away and transforms into harsh resolve right in front of her, the line of his shoulders turning tight.

“No,” he says, firmly. “I want to know.”

She nods and raises her wrist for him. He stares at him for a moment, and runs his thumb over the black lettering, over her pulse, which thuds painfully.

_James Buchanan Barnes._

The Soldier’s name is James Buchanan Barnes.

“Barnes, as in-” she doesn’t know quite how to finish those words.

“That’s why it hurts,” he muses, his voice growing soft. “When I hear his name. Steve Rogers. Captain America. I’m Bucky Barnes.” He blinks. “No, I’m not. I’m the… I’m the Winter Soldier.” He looks at her, his eyes clouding with worry. “Aren’t I? Aren’t I the Winter Soldier?”

She doesn’t know what to say. Somehow, squeezing his shoulder doesn’t feel enough. She hooks a leg over his hip and straddles him, cupping his jaw.

“You are the Winter Soldier to me,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against hers. “But you- _we_ can be whomever we want to be.” She threads their fingers together, holds it up to her mouth. “Antonia and James. The Engineer and the Winter Soldier. They aren’t us, neither of them, not really. They don’t give voice to us. They can’t. They are what others want from us, not who we really are under bone and skin and flesh.”

He threads his flesh hand through her hair, twists his fingers in her strands. “ _Milaya moya_ ,” he murmurs, and that’s enough.

“I am.” The breath hurtles out of her lungs. “I am yours. I am so yours, in all the ways you want me to be. I’ve always been yours, and you’ve always been mine. This, these names, they don’t change anything about us. They don’t change who we are to each other. I won’t let it.”

The Soldier stares at her, steadily, and swallows down the weight of her conviction like he’s starving. He nods, gratefully, and surges up, so he can hold her properly within the fold of his big, deft arms. He kisses her, like a slow honey drip, and so unbearably soft, until something inside her melts, something heavy and warm and fierce lingering in the spaces between each rib, beneath her heart and in her lungs – she doesn’t know how to put a word to the sentiment; she doesn’t even know if there is a word; all she knows is that she would do anything, give anything, endure anything, just so he could continue holding her like this.

He runs his hands all over the slivers of brown, sinewy skin, like he finds her otherworldly beautiful, and there’s a strong heat in her nerves just as the weight of his touch, making her dizzy with it all, almost drunk. Their bodies huddle together, pressed so close that she doesn’t know where she ends and he begins.

The revelation of their names, of their soulmarks (she always knew what was on her wrist, what she wasn’t allowed to give thought to, and it hadn’t mattered – not like now, not when she knows what this, what _he_ means) doesn’t lurk here; it doesn’t leave cracks the way they thought it would – maybe they’re fooling themselves; maybe the cracks will come later, but for now, they are who they are, and they have always been content with whatever they’ve had from each other.

This changes nothing.

She was right: he is everything.

They _are_ everything.

* * *

That night, she slinks out of his arms, while he sleeps on, the quietest and calmest he’s ever slept in her memories, and makes her way to the politician’s apartment.

She’s as artful as a wraith when she slips inside his bedroom, finds him snoring face down on the bed, with a half-drunk bottle of scotch on the bedside table. She turns him over, even as his eyes open, dazed, and drags her knife over his throat, opening up his arteries.

He’s dead even before she leaves the bedroom.

* * *

It comes later, the fruit of what they’ve done, of what they’ve learnt now. It comes in the shady little motel rooms when they’re sent on the mission, in the non-descript cars they drive. They go to bed together with their bodies tangled, whenever they can. They fuck when the moment permits. When he drives, he has one hand threaded with hers the whole way along.

It’s the sweetest thing in her existence.

It’s the most normal thing that could’ve ever happened between them – they were always meant for this.

Sometimes, he’ll crowd her against the wall, when the door closes, and kiss her like he’s starving, and she leans in, so willing. They move in sync like galaxies colliding, and every orgasm that they wring from each other is almost religious in its simplicity, in its strength.

This life is barely enough for them; she wants more, but she can’t have more, so she settles for whatever she can.

One day, he calls her _Antonia_ and freezes, looks at her like she’ll put a knife in his throat, and she remembers what she said to him, that first night they came together: _they aren’t us, neither of them, not really; they don’t give voice to us; they can’t; they are what others want from us, not who we really are under bone and skin and flesh_.

But then, she thinks: maybe she is Antonia, not the Antonia that would’ve grown safe and happy and kind and loved under the hand of Howard and Maria Stark, but the Antonia that belongs to the Winter Soldier, the girl that deals out life and death, but would kiss every sliver of pain off his mouth if she could.

Maybe she can be _this_ Antonia, and maybe it won’t be wrong.

Maybe she can be more than HYDRA’s great and terrible Engineer.

So, she smiles at him like he’s everything in the world to her, which he most definitely is, looks at him through her eyelashes and slides to her knees between his legs, tugging open his jeans.

When he comes with his hands in her hair and his eyes on her, he calls her _Antonia_ again, and it feels _right_.

Once they’re done, once he’s made her toes curl by putting his mouth on her, they press together under bedsheets, warm and close, and she calls him _Yasha_ for the first time. He was Bucky once in a way that she never was Antonia, but he’ll never be Bucky again; so, she calls him _Yasha_ , since Russian has become so rife with them now, and she knows what it means in Hebrew (he saved her, and she saved him, so what else fit him best?) – it feels like an insult to their lords and masters, a dig at their origins, all the misery they’ve brought into this world, and everything they should’ve been allowed to become, but were denied.

She can savour the knowledge that she’s renamed their greatest warrior in the tongue they once killed and brutalised men and women and children for – it tastes sweeter than blackberries in her mouth.

It becomes a little secret that’s just for them, and she begins to realise that eternity will never be enough.

* * *

**1994**

_Pretoria, South Africa_

She’s rubbing a towel across her damp hair when Yasha slips back inside the motel room, locking it behind him. She steps out of the bathroom, and he comes at her, pressing his mouth gently against her hair – it comes easily to him now, touching her like this, and it feels so soft and so beautiful that she can’t help but indulge in every moment offered to her.

“Did you find anything?” she asks him, curiously, wrapping her arms around his solid waist.

He hums, leaning his chin on her head. “Nothing interesting, or significant. The target is fairly standard in his routine. His grandchildren are currently leaving with him and his wife.”

Her hands settle on the base of his spine, as she looks up at him. “How do you want to do this?” she asks, curiously, unwilling to voice how uncomfortable she is at the idea of terminating a target in full view of his wife and young grandchildren.

“He has certain habits. His movements are predictable. Every evening, just before eight, he sits in the living room in a specific chair and watches the news.”

“Routines are good. We can make use of them,” she murmurs. She mulls it over. “Two days from now, it will be Guy Fawkes Night. A less experienced asset would likely pick such a night, knowing that the fireworks would go off in the neighbourhood and would silence the firing of a gun.”

Yasha concedes to her proposition. “That’s a sound strategy.” He pushes her hair out of her face. “It makes us look amateurish, which will help conceal the identities of those who ordered the hit, as well as effectively get the job done with minimal hassle. Two days from now, then?”

“Two days from now.”

* * *

For a man who’s made a number of enemies, the target has absolutely no security, which is made abundantly clear when they make their way to his house, two days later. It’s a large property, with a cottage towards the end of the south border, but it’s manned by no fence, no animals, no security system, just an open driveway, and pebbles bordering the garden that rims the lawn.

It’s a nice little place, made for couples with little children, with enough space that the children can run around, with an animal or two; the kind of scene that you see on the television and are fooled into believing is real and graspable.

Maybe this is the only place in the world where it is real.

Maybe this is the only place in the world where that happy ending can come to life.

They creep across the lawn, leaving no visible print in the grass, until they are crouching in the shadows in front of the window that leads into the living room.

Their target is an older man, in his late sixties, with white, thinning hair and big, black-rimmed glasses. He pads into the living room and takes a seat in a nice plush leather seat, and turns on the television, peering interestedly at the news.

Yasha looks at her and inclines his head. He thumbs the hilt of the gun strapped to his thigh and slides it out of its holster, turning off the safety. He raises his hand and the barrel presses the against the glass window.

He pulls the trigger and the bullet slices cleanly through the glass, leaving no ruin but a little rent in the glass, and slices cleanly through the back of his neck, exiting his body near his eye, leaving a bloody, gruesome wound as big as a man’s fist.

She curls a hand around Yasha’s wrist when the wife stumbles into the living room.

“Let’s go,” she urges.

She can’t see this, not anymore, not when she understands now, more than she ever could before.

Yasha’s eyes drift from the death grip she has on his wrist up to her pale face, and nods, his brow furrowing in concern, his own eyes dark and distinct against the pallor of his face. She releases him, and they sweep out of the area, undetected, never stopping until they’re a safe distance away from the harsh whine of sirens in the air.

“What’s wrong?” he asks her, once she shuts the door to their motel room and presses her forehead against it.

She shakes her head, the words too heavy and too big to say properly. He crowds her in against the door, his hands planting on either side of her. Something in her chest loosens.

“Talk to me,” he urges in her ear.

“They had each other’s names,” she says, dully.

She feels the line of his shoulders go taut against her.

“Yes,” he replies, carefully.

She rounds in his embrace. “They’re just like us.”

“He was our target,” he reminds her.

“I know.” She doesn’t mourn the target. “I just… I empathise.” She looks at him. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. What would I do? What would you do if you lost me? It isn’t a fate I’m willing to allow now.”

It seems unthinkable now, even if this is so new and so sweet between them – as silly as it sounds, they are all they have now.

He softens and brushes her hair out of her face. He leans in, pressing their foreheads against each other, cupping the back of her skull and pulling her close.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she says, suddenly. “And I know you can’t promise me anything, not with what we do, what we are. But I don’t know what I’d do without you anymore, if I ever did. I don’t ever want either of us to ever become that woman.” She closes her eyes, counts to ten. “I’m sorry,” she bites out. “I shouldn’t be so weak.”

 _I am always so weak_ , she thinks, bitterly.

“How many times have I told you,” he says, gently but firm enough, running his thumb over her cheekbone. “You are the furthest thing from weak.”

She rolls her eyes and tugs on the collar of his undershirt that peeks out of his tactical armour.

“You always say such maudlin things,” she complains.

He raises an eyebrow. “I thought I was being kind, but if you think I’m being maudlin-”

She curls a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down for a solid kiss. He groans and surges into it, hitching her up against him, using the wall for support. Her legs hang around his knees, her arms thrown over his shoulders, as she wriggles around in his lap.

“I won’t ever let anyone take you from me,” he promises. He clutches her tight, like a vice, like he’s terrified of letting her go. “I won’t ever let either of us become that woman, grieving over her dead soulmate. You are everything to me, do you understand?”

She covers his jaw with her palm. “As much as you are everything to me.”

“You were right,” he declares, pulling her from the wall so that she can wrap her legs around his waist.

“Oh?” she laughs warm and bright in his ear when he lies her down on the little cot in their motel room, nuzzling at the join of her neck and her warm shoulder.

He hums in agreement, running his hands all over her. “We _are_ everything, _malina moya_.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I am hardly a raspberry,” she says, amused.

“Well, you look like one.”

“No, I don’t!” she lets him drape her legs over his arms, where the muscle ripples under his skin.

“You do,” he insists and then gives her a grin she’s never seen before, all dark and hungry and lazy, a grin she would never have thought him capable of (the great Winter Soldier, the Fist of HYDRA, their silent knife in the shadows).

It makes her belly swoop.

She huffs. “I do _not_.”

“You do!” he presses his mouth to her flat stomach, as he rolls down her trousers and nudges aside her underwear. “Here,” he says, roughly, his beard scraping her inner thighs. He slips two fingers up inside her, licking at her cunt. “ _Here_. You’re as pink as a raspberry and just as ripe right here, _Antonia moya_.”

All she can do is moan, collapsing onto the pillows, with one hand in his long hair.

They _are_ everything.

* * *

**1995**

Everything has its time, and everything dies and soon, they’re told they will be returning to HYDRA’s loving embrace after years of service to the Soviet Union.

The Engineer ( _no, Antonia_ – she is always Yasha’s Antonia) nods, swallows it downs, and pretends like it isn’t the sickening thing she will have stomach.

They won’t even get a chance to give their goodbyes to Natalia.

Beside her, Yasha nods, the tendon in his jaw clenched, his fingers curled loosely into fists by his side.

“As you wish, _predsedatel_ ,” he intones, inclining his head.

The chairman smiles. “We must thank you for all your service. You have made us very proud, and your commander will hear of this.”

Antonia gives him a shadow of a smile. “We are glad that you found us acceptable.”

“Acceptable is an understatement,” Madame B. chimes in, watching them with needle-sharp eyes. “Every task we have given to you, you have completed beyond our expectations.”

 _Because you would’ve sent us to our deaths if we’d done a poor job_ , Antonia thinks. _But you will never acknowledge that. You don’t even see us as human beings, just warm bodies for murder._

She folds her hands behind her back. “When will we be returning to our base?” she asks, curiously.

“The commander has agreed to arrange transport for you in a week’s time,” the chairman tells them.

Her belly curdles.

A week, that is all they have left.

_A week._

She was right: an eternity wouldn’t have been enough.

* * *

The commander is there at the base to welcome them when they arrive, climbing out of the car.

It surprises her. They always have to go to him; he’d never deign to approach them himself.

It doesn’t sit well with her, this change in his protocols.

“You have been missed,” he drawls, eyeing them like he’s pulling apart their skin to see their sins underneath. “I hope your time with the Russians was eventful, if not interesting.”

She tips her head down. “We did our duty, commander.”

“Of course, you did,” he agrees, easily, touching her hair (it makes her skin crawl, his hands on her – she is only meant for Yasha, after all). “If you hadn’t, I would’ve heard about it.” He claps his hands together. “Now, enough with the welcoming committee, I think. We have work to do.”

He turns his eyes onto Yasha, who is ever silent and ever watchful by her side.

“There is no place for you in this endeavour, _Soldat_. You are not needed,” the commander tells him, almost bored. “ _Zhelaniye_ , _rzhavyy_ , _semnadtsat’_ , _rassvet_ , _pech’_ , _devyat’_ , _dobroserdechnyy_ , _vozvrashcheniye na rodinu_ , _odin_ , _gruzovoy vagon_.”

Where Yasha struggles, he turns into a meek little kitten.

“ _Ya gotov otvechat_ ,” he murmurs.

The commander smiles. “Take him away.” He nods at the man shouldering him.

They grip him by the arms and drag him away, and she stands there, paralysed to the ground, unable to move an inch (she knows he would never want him to, but it means nothing, not when they take him away from her).

There is enough strength in her hands alone to kill them alone, paint the walls with their blood, but she still does nothing, the miserable little coward that she is.

She has never been more ashamed of herself than in this moment.

“Now, come,” the commander orders.

Defiance burns bright, and she hesitates.

The commander raises an eyebrow. “Are you disobeying me, girl?” he warns, his voice lowering to a smooth tenor.

She grits her teeth.

The commander backhands her. Pain explodes across her face and she crumples to the ground, splaying her hands out onto the floor to slow her fall.

He crouches down in front of her. “It seems your time with the Russians has made you complacent, foolish, arrogant, as if you actually meant something more than just a killer,” he grips her jaw in a punishing grip. “A hollowed-out weapon for _our_ use.”

 _I am Antonia Margaret Stark_ , she reminds herself. _I am Yasha’s Antonia. I am someone. I am more than what HYDRA wants from me. I am more than death and rot and ruin. I am mine before I am anyone else’s. No more._

_No more._

She lifts her chin and her arm lashes out, her elbow dislocating the knee joint of one of the man that crowds her. He falls to the ground with a shout, and she kicks him in the wall, turning her anger and desperation on the woman on the other side. The woman swipes for her, but she ducks and weaves and wraps her arm around the woman’s neck, snapping her neck with a jerk of her shoulder.

She stares down at the corpse and before she can even think anything, the stun baton catches her on the hip, making her crumple with a high, grating whine, splaying her hand out on the ground to balance herself. The electroshock doesn’t let up, her muscles seizing under the pressure and pain, and she writhes on the ground, with the commander looming over her.

He doesn’t even look angry, his face etched in curiosity and lust, casually pressing the edge of the baton against her abdomen. 

Finally, she chokes, and her arms slump out, the fight draining out of her.

Where they drag Yasha away by the arms, they pull her by the hair like a rag doll.

* * *

It takes the collective effort of six handlers to dump her onto a metal stretcher, pinning her wrists and ankles, while she struggles. They bind her as quick as they can, and the leather braces are enough to keep her mobile, while her muscles still recover from the electroshock.

The commander approaches her, dragging his fingers across the inside of her smooth thigh, under the loose, free-flowing gown that they’ve forcibly changed her into, taking advantage of her impairment. She cringes away from the touch, gritting her teeth.

He clucks his tongue. “Now, now, stop struggling, girl. This will happen, whether you comply or not.”

“What is _this_?” she growls.

He smiles at her, all threat and hunger, splaying a hand on her warm belly, over the thin fabric of the gown.

“You will give us a great gift, girl,” he soothes. “You will help remake the world in _our_ image.”

She wants to spit in his face.

“You will be the mother to a new generation of soldiers.”

She thinks she will vomit.

_I will be the mother of monsters._

“Don’t you see what a gift this will be?” the commander asks, gently.

“You are mad,” she says, her voice hollow.

She gasps when he rams his fist right into her stomach, the breath swooping out of her in a flare of pain.

The commander leans in, his face dark and full of promise. “Think of this as punishment, if that’s what you want. Nonetheless, it will happen. I will not accept any other result,” he warns, his tone light.

She does it, gives into this miserable little urge she’s been harbouring for years.

She spits in his face and laughs like he’s the most pathetic little creature she’s ever had the misfortune of meeting eyes with – _he is_.

The commander scowls, ugly, and wipes the spit from his cheekbone. He drags his hands through her dark hair that spills across the stretcher and pulls until the sting makes her grit her teeth.

“Just for that, they won’t be kind with you at all. They’re going to make you bleed, you little cunt,” he bites out.

 _I will murder anything you put inside me if that’s what it takes_ , she thinks, spitefully. _I will not birth horrors to satisfy your sick desires._

She fights against her binds, when they splay her legs wide open for their gaze, putting her feet up in stirrups. Beside her is a metal tray lined with tools, sharp little things that she knows they’ll use to reach up inside her and do what they will with her body.

_No more. No more._

The commander saunters over to the end of the bed, greedily taking in the sight of her so exposed for him.

“You look good like this, girl,” he comments, dryly, running his thumb over the beard that darkens his jaw. “I’ll be sure to remember the pretty picture you make.”

She grits her teeth against the sting of humiliation and resumes struggling.

In the distance, she hears him roar.

She turns her head.

He’s screaming; he’s _fighting_ , to get away from them, to get to _her_.

How could she do any less?

“He fights for you,” the commander muses, and then pins her down with his gaze, a curious, indignant glint to his dark eyes. “Is this _love_ , girl?” the commander sneers. “Do you love him?”

Does she love him?

No, love is for children. This is something more, this is something that can’t be explained in ordinary terms.

This is just _theirs_ , and she won’t allow the commander to destroy it.

When she looks at him, his face is etched in bitter, seething hatred.

“He would’ve gutted you like a pig had I ordered him to, and you chose _him_ ,” he growls. “What a fool you are, girl.”

She wants to scream at him, _Yasha would never hurt me, you monster. He’d peel you like a grape where you stand, if I asked it of him. Your orders mean nothing to us anymore._

But then, it occurs to her what that look on his face means, and she wants to laugh again – he wants her, he wants her so relentlessly, and he can’t stand that she doesn’t want him (she has _never_ wanted him, not even when she thought everything that she was belonged to HYDRA first).

“You are pathetic,” she whispers.

The commander strikes her again, punching her right in the stomach without any finesse, knocking the air out of her lungs once more. She coughs and sinks back against the stretcher, her head lolling as she stares at the ceiling, the freezer-like room making goosebumps pebble uncomfortably over her skin.

Then, she hears silence.

The commander looks down at her, touches her hair, his face appallingly delighted.

He laughs then, a dark and poisonous thing.

“He went down. All dogs do in the end.”

She’s going to pop out his eyes and make him eat them before she kills him.

She watches as one of the handlers picks up the metal tray arrayed with the tools for their procedure.

“Rejoice, girl. You will serve an historic purpose for us, for HYDRA,” the commander says, gently, leaning down to press his mouth against hers, firm and wet.

She bites down as hard as she can, feeling the flesh part under her teeth and the coppery taste of blood fills her mouth, which she promptly spits out when he reels back in pain and shock, crying out and clutching at his disfigured lip.

Her eyes find the handler holding onto the tray and turns her foot, just a little, so that she can kick the tray right out of his hands, sending the tools flying. A curette flips in the air and lands in her open palm, and she twists it, slicing open the leather binding her wrist, before she buries it in the handler’s throat, blood spraying out onto her fingers and gown. She grips him by the throat, as he bleeds out in her hold, and uses him as a shield, bodily throwing him into the next handler that comes at her.

The last handler waves a gun in her face, but she pins his arm down against the stretcher with her ankle, slamming her fist into his face, until she hears his skull crack. She cuts away the last of her bindings, snatching the gun from the last handler and flips over the stretcher, immediately aiming it in the direction the commander had been before she began her escape.

He’s nowhere to be found.

 _Cowards always run_ , she scoffs.

It’s fine, though.

She’s always liked a good hunt. 

* * *

She stalks through the cold corridors of the base, the barrel of her gun raised, padding along barefoot.

“ _Komandir, komandir_ ,” she sings. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

There’s no answer.

She sighs.

A door creaks in the distance and she turns around, leaning into the sound.

She goes back the way she came, keeping the gun up in front of her. When she rounds the corner, she sees heavily-booted feet and her grip around the gun tightens.

She meets his eyes, finger pulling the trigger a fraction of an inch.

But it’s Yasha.

The breath leaves her lungs in a solid swoop.

He reaches her before she can, loping across the stretch of the corridor, until he lifts her up against him with his big, deft hands, her tiny waist hitched up over his thighs.

“Did they hurt you? _Did they hurt you_?” he demands, gripping her face in his hands, his thumbs pressing into the bruises under her eyes.

“I’m fine, I’m _fine_ ,” she sobs, kissing him, hard and quick, like she’s starving. “Are you? You fought back; I heard you, and then you were silent. Did they hurt you? Are you okay?”

“They tried,” he says, coldly. “It failed.”

It’s now that she notices his hands streaked with blood, already browning, the bruises on his skin, a mottled canvas of peach and yellow and purple, and the cuts on his face.

She kisses him again, throwing her arms around his neck. His hands circle around her thighs.

“Tell me they didn’t hurt you,” he urges. “Promise me. _Promise me_.”

She drags her blunt nails through her hair, running her thumb over his cheekbone. “Nothing in this universe could take me away from you. I won’t allow it,” she murmurs.

Yasha slumps against her, holding her close like he fears she’ll fade into nothing right there in his arms.

“We need to leave,” he says, quietly. “Before reinforcements arrive.”

She bites her lip. “I can’t leave yet,” she tells him. “I won’t be able to sleep at night until I know that he’s dead.”

Yasha stares at her for a moment, his expression warring, like he wants to argue with her and drag her away by her ankles. Finally, he relents, grudgingly.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Let’s find the bastard.”

She smiles up at him, so unbearably soft, and kisses him, gently this time.

She threads their fingers together and they drift through the corridor.

* * *

They find the commander in the chamber that holds the chair that makes Yasha shake from head to foot, his fingers working furiously at the monitors.

She snarls, her teeth bared, and lunges forward, gripping him by the scruff of his neck and throwing him onto the ground, between her and Yasha, like a sack of potatoes.

“You don’t get to escape that easily,” she says, coldly.

He quails in front of her.

_Good._

This is all she’s ever wanted from him, to be as afraid as he’s always made her.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” he asks, resigned.

She raises an eyebrow. “You were expecting something different?”

He sighs, grimacing. “I suppose I should be proud. You’ve become exactly what I always wanted you to be. You’ve done me proud, Engineer.”

His eyes dart to Yasha, who shoulders her, who stares down at him with a dark, haunting gaze, like he would pull his innards out through his throat if he only got the chance – Yasha is a kind man; he’s giving her the commander’s death.

“But I should’ve snapped your neck like a chicken bone the day _Soldat_ brought us to you,” he mutters and stares up at her, all resentful. “My mercy was our undoing.”

Beside her, Yasha bristles.

She kneels before him and presses the barrel of her gun right between his eyes.

“I won’t let you lay claim to everything that I am,” she says, in an ugly tone, and slides to her feet. “You aren’t that important.”

She stares down at him, this man who seems so small and so pathetic to her now, but had so happily been the monster in her nightmares.

_No more._

“I am _not_ yours,” she grits out.

He smiles at her, all threat and hunger. “That’s what you think.”

A gun appears in his palm out of nowhere, and she curses herself for underestimating him, for letting her anger shadow her reason, but before she can do anything, he fires and the bullet catches Yasha in the stomach, making him grunt and fall to his knees.

She sees red, red, red, quickly fading into a blur of rage and instinct, and fires her gun, the bullet running the commander through right between the eyes.

His skull hits the ground with a sharp crack, his eyes pale and numb and blank, as the life fades from him. She gives him a good kick in the stomach for good measure, and the relief knots in her throat.

She reaches for Yasha, falling beside him, her hand going to his wound which trickles sticky, wet all over her fingers.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures, gladly threading their fingers together, raising their joined hands to his mouth.

He climbs to his feet, unaided, with a muffled noise of pain, his smile taut when it flashes in her direction.

There’s a rustle of sound just within their earshot and they meet each other’s gaze.

“Reinforcements have arrived. We must leave,” he says, solemnly, wrapping a broad palm around her thin wrist.

She shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says, reluctantly, her eyes going to his wound.

He scowls. “What now?” he demands.

“The computers, they’ll have intel on it. It could be useful, it could give us leverage,” she urges.

Yasha grimaces and finally relents. “Fine, but hurry.”

She nods and rushes to the workstation, while Yasha scours the room, arming himself with anything he can find, albeit with a slight stagger (he’d never let something so mundane as a bullet wound make him falter). He ends up in front of the chair, gazing down at it with dark eyes.

She looks up at him over the monitors.

“Yasha,” she says, cautiously.

He doesn’t say a word to her, just begins dismantling the cursed thing with his bare hands, deftly and silently. She watches him, seeing the tight line of his shoulders, the way his muscle flexes and ripples under his skin, how he holds himself close like he feels he might come apart at the seams.

She wishes she could do more for him in this moment, but she knows, she knows what it’s like to want to kill the monsters yourself. She’d never want to take that from him.

Yasha walks over to the commander’s corpse and grips him by the throat, lifting him up into the air and impaling him onto one of the struts that’s left of the chair after he’s done with it.

He looks at her, then, flashing her a questioning look. “Are you done?”

She nods, giving a soft, sad look, and returns her attention to the monitors, typing until she can download the contents of the hard drive onto a floppy disk, which she quickly stows away inside Yasha’s armour.

“Come, we must leave,” he says, quietly, gripping her by the wrist.

This is right, running with him – there was never going to be another end for them.

They sidle out of the chamber, slinking against the walls towards the garage, hoping to escape undetected. Despite his protests, she throws his arm over her shoulders, carries some of his weight as they drag their feet through the corridors.

They can hear the loud sound of reinforcements storming the base, the shouts, the sound of artillery, as they desperately try to recover their assets before they lose them completely, but Antonia has no intention of ever letting them tie her or Yasha down again.

The garage is empty, quiet and warm when they enter, and they make their way to a simple, nondescript black Cadillac hidden against the walls under a greying, dirty tarp. She shoves Yasha into the front, before climbing into the driver’s seat.

When they pull out of the garage and she manages to get the car onto the road, she hands him the device she had used to shut down the systems of the US embassy in Beirut.

“Type in 2, 9, 0, 5,” she orders.

Yasha wriggles in the seat, putting pressure on his bullet wound, but does as she asks.

“What is it?” he looks down at it, confused. “What did you do?”

“Wait for it,” she says, vaguely.

Two and a half seconds later, the world behind them flares up in fire.

It’s the brightest of ends to the most terrible of beginnings.

Yasha reaches for her hand and she gives it willingly.

This is how their eternity begins, with the painfully intimate, greedy way that their thumbs sweep over each other’s pulse point, over the black lettering that anchors them together endlessly, and the catastrophe of kinetic energy splintering the sky behind them.

* * *

The door swings open.

Peggy Carter’s face flickers with surprise, before shuttering off in resolve.

She imagines they make quite a sight: her, barefoot, in a hospital gown stained with dry blood, and him, in tactical armour, hunched over and bleeding from a bullet wound in his stomach.

“Please,” she hefts Yasha’s arm over her shoulders as he starts to slip. “We need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artist who chose my summary is the beautiful sleepoverwork, and her contribution to my fic can be found here: https://letsallsleepoverwork.tumblr.com/post/185286854949/ahhhhhh-i-had-the-lovely-pleasure-of-working-with.
> 
> Thank you so much darling for all your cheering and your hard work with this beautiful art. I love you so hard <3


End file.
